


The Sacrifice

by Hinn_Raven



Series: Deal with the Devil [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Betrayal, Eventual Happy Ending, Eye Trauma, Felix Being a Dick, Gen, Head Shaving, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Revenge, Self-Sacrifice, Slow on the Comfort, Torture, Undead Felix, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-03 07:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13336236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven
Summary: When Felix comes back from the dead, Locus makes a deal with the devil to keep the Reds and Blues safe.The Reds and Blues assume that Locus betrayed them, until they uncover the truth. But they might be too late to save Locus.





	1. Part I: Bargain

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so buckle in folks, this will be a rough one. 
> 
> After I finished "Deprivation", I told myself I'd take a break from angst. And then a few friends of mine started throwing around some ideas for a Locus whump concept (you know who you are), and I couldn't resist. This was supposed to be a one-shot, but it got LONG, so I've broken it up a bit. Should hopefully be a three-parter. We'll see. 
> 
> Please read the tags; a lot of these don't kick in during the first chapter (first chapter is actually relatively tame, see below) but they _will_ kick in. Decide for yourself if you can handle this; if you need details, PM me on Tumblr and I'll let you know things so you can make an informed decision about your reading experience. 
> 
> Special thanks to Lem for being my beta on this project!
> 
> Warnings for chapter 1: discussed character death and torture. Implied/background pairings include Tuckington, Grimmons, Docnut, and some possible Lucker pining can be read.

Locus doesn’t intend to follow the Reds and Blues back to their new home, but it’s how things turn out. Washington survives his injuries, the reporter goes off to find new stories, and the Reds and Blues retreat to their moon.

And Locus, outside of his better judgement, goes with them.

They accept him, which is surprising. He expected that he would be lurking in corners for a while, before they turned on him and threw him out. But that is not how they chose to operate.

Instead, they give him a room and a place, as long as he agrees to follow these rules.

1)     He is not supposed to leave the moon without the others.

2)     He is not supposed to contact people from his mercenary days

3)     He is not to hurt anyone, except for sparring sessions

4)     He must cook dinner on Friday nights

Locus accepts these conditions easily enough. He thinks it will be temporary; until they embark upon their next adventure or until he is called away.

But instead, he stays. He spends his days sword fighting with Tucker and sparring with Carolina. He spends time with Grif and Caboose, and allows himself to be subjected to numerous “treatments” at the hands of Donut, which tend to involve creams on his face.

It’s simple and calm and confusing, but Locus finds himself enjoying it. The Reds and Blues are oddly kind to him, and there is something contagious about their antics. Locus has no right to it, but… there is something almost like home, here.

Six months into this however, things change.

Because Felix comes back from the dead.

* * *

 

In Locus’ dreams, Felix always comes back with a laugh and a blade in his hand.

He’s never really gone away, not to Locus. He’s always there, in the corner of his eye, whispering poisonous thoughts into his ear, miming violent gestures towards the Reds and Blues as Locus falls into these strange patterns alongside them. Even in death, Felix has entrenched himself so thoroughly into Locus’ mind and soul that he knows that he will never be free. 

So when Felix comes back in reality, his fingernails digging into Locus’ cheek as he clasps one hand over his mouth and the knife digs into his throat, it takes a moment for Locus to realize that he’s really there.

He reacts with a lurch, reaching for a weapon, but the blade digs into his throat and Felix makes a soft noise to hush him.

“Calm down, it’s me,” Felix says, and for a single dizzying moment, Locus thinks that the last few years have been a dream, that they’re back on Chorus, that—

And then he sees the scars on Felix’s face; ragged, unhealed lines, lines that look like—

They look like the scars someone might get if they fall off a cliff and their helmet shattered against their face upon impact.

Locus freezes up, staring at the nightmare unfurling above him with wide eyes and a racing heart. Felix laughs in a ghost of his old one; it’s bitter and short and cruel sounding. “Don’t scream, or you die,” he whispers against Locus’ ear, his breath hot against his skin. Panic builds in Locus’ chest, wanting nothing more than to get away, to run, to wake up.

But this is not a dream, and Locus doesn’t scream when Felix removes his hand from his mouth.

“How?” Locus whispers. This is Felix, almost exactly as he had been when he died, with only those new scars to assure him that things have changed. The weight of him is familiar, the grin on his face is familiar; it’s all horribly, intimately familiar, but now there is danger. And Locus might have known about the danger before, but now he _cares_.  

“What?” Felix traces Locus’ cheek gently with the knife. Locus holds himself stock-still, but Felix doesn’t break the skin on his face, although he feels something damp on his throat. It’s not deep enough to kill him, just enough to be a reminder. “Did you really think I didn’t have a plan in place for my death?” He smiles, the expression a parody of kindness. “Of course, I didn’t think _you_ would be the one setting me up for the firing squad.”

Locus reacts without thinking. Felix is out of armor and the knife is just far enough away from anywhere vital. It gives Locus the opening he needs to grab Felix’s head in his hands and snap his neck. Locus has done this action a thousand times, and in that moment, it’s no different. He twists, and there’s a horrible crack, and for a moment Locus thinks it’s over. He has averted a disaster before it could occur; now all that is left to do is to find the Reds and Blues and try to figure out how this all happened—

And then Felix, instead of crumpling in a lifeless heap on top of Locus, starts to laugh. He grabs Locus’ hands and pulls them up to the headboard, and before Locus can even think to fight back, there’s the snap of handcuffs, and he’s trapped.

“This isn’t possible,” Locus says, feeling numb. Felix grabs his own head between his hands and readjusts it, until—

“Don’t think too hard, Locs, you were never good at that.”

Locus growls at the insult and the horrifying absurdity of the scene above him. “You should be dead.”

“Twice! And don’t think you’re not going to pay for that second one.” For a moment, Locus thinks he can smell death and decay, thinks that a corpse is what is in his room. But the moment passes, and all he can smell is Felix’s expensive cologne and his own blood. “I took a few precautions. Let’s just say that Tucker won’t get lucky _this_ time.”

“No,” Locus breathes, panic settling in. He opens his mouth to scream, to warn them, but what’s the _point_ , if Felix can’t be killed?

“Just be a good little soldier, and stay there until I go kill those other idiots,” Felix says, getting off the bed to loom over him, still smirking. Locus tries to lunge upward, but the handcuffs hold him back. “Do you have a favorite? I promise to kill that one slow.”

“No,” he snarls, pulling at the chain, hoping beyond hopes it will snap. He can’t let Felix go to find the others, can’t let him _hurt_ them.

Felix stares at him a moment, then he starts to laugh, and laugh, and _laugh._

“You _care_ ,” he marvels, reaching forward to cup Locus’ jaw. Locus tries to flinch away, but there’s no room to move. The cuffs clink together uselessly, and he knows, given time, he could find the right angle to break the headboard, but he also knows that Felix won’t give him that kind of time. “They broke you, didn’t they?”

“They helped me,” Locus protests, yanking at the handcuffs again.

“I’m sure they did,” Felix laughs, a sound so horrifyingly familiar that Locus does not know how to handle it. “Tell you what, _partner._ Let’s bargain.”

And so, handcuffed to his bed, a dead partner above him, Locus makes a deal with the devil.

“What do you want?” Locus asks. Part of him knows, and he’s torn between the numb acceptance and the waves of terror that battle inside of him.

“What a good question,” Felix muses. “I want Lavernius Tucker to pay for that grenade. I want those _idiots_ to suffer. And I want _you_ to _die_ alone, like I did. So how do I get all of those?” Suddenly, he’s straddling Locus’ chest again. “Do they trust you?” He demands, and his eyes are alight, like he’s just gotten an _idea_. “Those idiots. Do they trust you?”

“I won’t hurt them,” Locus says, feeling nauseated at the very idea. A traitorous part of him wonders if he would hurt them, even kill a few of them, to save the rest, and he’s terrified that Felix will push him to find out.  

“Shh, don’t worry about that,” Felix says, patting his cheek with the flat of the knife. “They do, don’t they.” It is not a question.

Locus jerks, trying to throw Felix off him, only to get a slap for his troubles. It’s not that hard, but Locus still grunts and grits his teeth, sure that it’s left a mark.

“Behave.” His smile is cruel. “Tell you what. You _betray them_.”

Locus stares up at him, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he tries to process what is being offered. “And then you will leave them alone?”

“Yes,” Felix says. “ _You_ get to pay their price. All of it. You betray them, you come to me, and then you let me do whatever I want, for however long I want, until I get bored and kill you.”

“And you won’t harm them,” Locus repeats, for surety.

“ _Yes_ , I just said that.” Felix rolls his eyes in annoyance. “I’ll give you three days to betray them. All that trust. All that understanding. You’re going to _break it_ , you hear me? Break it into a thousand pieces, grind it up to bits, and then you’re going to leave them to pick up the pieces.” His smile is wide and feral. “And if you tell them about me, or if you don’t show up at the end of day three, I’ll burn them all alive, and make you watch.”

Locus’ mouth is dry as a bone.

But there can be no other answer, and Felix knows this. Felix knows him too well; even now, even changed as Locus is, Felix understands him better than anyone else possibly could. And as horrifying as that is, Locus knows it says more about him than it does about Felix.

“Deal.”

* * *

 

He goes for a walk to clear his head.

There is a stretch of beach, on the island, that seems to go on forever. Locus takes off his shoes and socks, rolls up his pants to his knees, and wades into the water.

The water is biting cold, but Locus doesn’t react, just closes his eyes and savors the sensations of the waves moving around him, and the sand shifting beneath his feet.

The night is beautiful, and it feels cruel. The planet the moon orbits isn’t visible at the moment, but the stars are scattered brightly across the inky sky, forming constellations unlike the ones that he had grown up with.

Finally, he starts walking, keeping to the edge of the water. The waves move in and out at a leisurely pace, splashing over his feet and then retreating, washing away his footprints in a few movements.

The sand is cool and damp beneath his feet. Every pass of the waves leaves it bright and shining, ever footfall of his pushes the water back out, leaving it dull in his wake until the ocean reclaims it.

Locus hopes that is how it will be for the Reds and Blues as well. Felix thinks that his betrayal will shatter them, but they have gone through worse than this. They will rally, and hopefully it will leave as few marks as Locus is leaving on the beach itself.

He is not arrogant enough to think it will be nearly the worst betrayal, the worst departure, that they had faced in all their years of adventures. He knows the names of those missing from their lives, the ones that feel as if they are always hanging over the Reds and Blues. There is Church, Sheila, and Agent Texas. There is Epsilon, whose loss is still fresh for many of them. Donald Doyle, Tucker’s squad, the Freelancers killed by the Blues and Reds are also a presence that Locus knows the Reds and Blues blame themselves for.

For Washington and Carolina in particular, there are even more names. Freelancer names that they don’t speak about, that he only knows from their files. Connecticut, Maine, York. Perhaps the Dakotas, Florida, and Wyoming as well.

Who is Locus, compared to that? He is a murderer, a monster, a killer. They hide him on this island despite the outstanding warrants both Kimball and UNSC have issued. He does not pretend to understand their logic or justification for aiding him, for concealing him from the courts. When he leaves, he will be a footnote in their stories, soon forgotten.

Locus himself should have left long ago; he has more debt to pay, more people he might be able to help. But instead he had allowed himself to fall into the rhythms of living with them, not making amends to the galaxy.

He comforts himself knowing that, had he left, he might not have been able to stop Felix from taking his vengeance. They might already be dead, and he would be none the wiser.

His debt to Chorus can never be paid. Locus knows this. He can’t seek forgiveness for what he did. There is no one who can speak for the dead, to reach out and pardon him. All he can do is try to do some good with the years he has left. What good will rotting in a prison do? Vanessa Kimball might argue that there is justice there, but _can_ there be justice for what he has done?

Locus has never believed so. He is past justice, past absolution. He is a broken man, left to carry the burden of his sins until he dies, and no prison cell or execution will change that.

He has sent documents to Chorus; evidence against Hargrove that he has gathered, information about Charon and his empire that will help them protect themselves. He just wishes he had thought to hand over information about Felix or even himself, before this. Now, there is no chance. Felix would know, and he would retaliate.

There were many things he should have done, before Felix had returned to make him pay for his crimes.

No, not his crimes—Felix could not care less about the blood that Locus carries on his hands, except his own.

Felix will make him pay for his betrayal, for Felix’s death, for every slight and insult and injury that Locus might have dealt him over the years.

The thought is terrifying; it’s worse than a return to the way things were, in a way. They will not be equals, partners, comrades in arms. Felix had always been reluctant to turn the sharpest edge of his temper against Locus. If the alien A.I. is to be believed, it was because of fear.

And now, Locus has agreed to sharpen the knife and bare his neck, so long as Felix will stay his hand against the Reds and Blues.

“Locus!”

He nearly falls over, turning to see a figure standing behind him. In his reverie, the sounds that aren’t the ocean had faded into the background, allowing him to be surprised. _Foolish_ , he knows. It could easily have been Felix, changing his mind.

Lavernius Tucker is concerned, Locus can tell as he recognizes the person in front of him. It is only then that he realizes that the sun has started to rise in the distance, transforming the color of the water.

He has been pacing all night, since Felix has slipped from his room, unseen by the others and making off with the sword that Locus had once taken from him. Locus makes sure not to touch the mark on his neck, knowing Tucker will probably not notice it unless Locus does so.

Tucker wears white shorts and a tank top in his signature aqua, his dreadlocks falling loosely over his shoulders and down his back, the elastic that usually holds them in place visible around his wrist. He stands ankle deep in the sea, in front of Locus, and he looks concerned.

“Grif says you’ve been out here all night,” he says, and Locus’ mouth goes dry. Of course they’ve noticed something’s wrong. He’s been careless.

“It’s nothing,” he says. Tucker snorts, skeptical, like he did on those early nights when he’d found Locus in strange places when he was supposed to be asleep. So Locus relents. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Sympathy flickers across Tucker’s face. “Bad dreams?”

Locus looks away, and for a moment, the truth bubbles out before he can stop it. “Felix.” He bites his tongue instantly, so hard that he tastes blood, but Tucker just nods, thinking it an explanation of the content of his dreams. There is no way for him to discern the truth from that one slip; that Felix has returned from the dead, and now cannot be killed. That he wants vengeance for his death, and that Locus is going to do everything he can to shield Tucker and the others from the consequences of this for as long as he can.

There is no way for Tucker to know that Locus is about to betray them again.

The waves crash around them, and when Locus licks his lips nervously, he tastes salt.

“Want to talk about it?” Tucker says, reaching out and putting a hand on Locus’ arm, and Locus takes a deep, shuddering breath, jerking back from the contact.

In three days, Tucker will regret looking at Locus with any degree of kindness or sympathy. Anything that Locus takes now; comfort or kind words, Tucker will use to blame himself somehow. It is best to make this clean, to refuse this, to stay away.

“No,” he says, and turns to walk away.

Tucker grabs his elbow, trying to pull him back. And at any other time, Locus might have let him, might have allowed himself to be tugged into an embrace, or perhaps even taken advantage of the momentum and tackled Lavernius Tucker into the waves.

But this is now, and Locus digs his heels into the sand, each beat of the waves making him only steadier in his stance.

“Sam,” Tucker says, and Locus’ breath hitches. Tucker _never_ uses that name, and now it’s like a knife, slicing through him, and he wants to fall to his knees and weep, and confess everything that is about to happen. “It’s okay. I have those dreams too.”

And just like that, Locus’ knees lock in place. He cannot break. He must keep his silence.

“Lavernius,” he says, and he curses himself for his choice to use Tucker’s first name. It’s too close, too intimate, it’s everything that he was trying to avoid doing before leaving. “Let me go.” He hesitates, but he needs to get out of here, needs to run before Tucker manages to break through his resolve. “Please.”

For a moment, he thinks Tucker will push and pry the truth from him, to undo him with a few simple questions and sympathetic smiles. But instead, the hand withdraws, and Locus walks out of the sea, and he tells himself the damp and salt on his face is only the ocean spray.

* * *

The worst part is, he knows exactly what he will need to do to convince them of his betrayal.

Felix has given him three days, and Locus makes use of them. He goes into his accounts and sends vaguely worded messages to people with strange usernames, and then does a basic scrub that Simmons will be able to reverse easily. And when he does so, they will be convinced that there were more messages that he cannot recover, once Locus is done with the rest.

He thinks of trying to warn them, of trying to leave some hints of danger, so that they’ll run. But if he threatens them, Carolina and Washington might chase him, the others not far behind. They will not take a threat lightly, and they would chase him into the lion’s den and die as well. It is better they think he was using them and has moved on, nothing more. They are transient by nature, always being lured into strange new events. Hopefully by the time that Felix is done with him, they will have found a new adventure.

He breaks into every computer he can get his hands on, and deletes any photograph with his face. It’s painful, going through the memories, going through the proof that he had been accepted, that he had been _trusted_ , knowing that he is shattering it beyond repair.

 _This is for them_ , he reminds himself

He empties out his room in silence, scrubbing the base clean of fingerprints while he goes. They know his first name, but they’ve never tried to locate who he really is, his last name or his history. When they realize he’s left, someone will think to try, but they will have nothing to go on, and they’ll realize this was intentional.

There’s a cave that none of them know about, and he digs a large pit, throwing all the things he wants them to think he’s bringing with them but he refuses to let Felix get his hands on into its depths. Every single strange item that Caboose had given him is carefully wrapped in tissue paper and placed in a box. He places the crude shirts that Grif buys him in plastic, airtight containers and puts them besides Caboose’s presents. His own copies of the photographs he has destroyed elsewhere go there too; it’s selfish, perhaps, to not destroy his own copies, but he wants some reminder of the time to still exist. The mug he drinks tea with, and even the boxes that contain his tea join them.

Then he buries his weapons, except the sword. Felix has that, a reminder that this was not some strange dream.

The last night, Locus does what he knows will convince them.

He breaks into the room that Washington and Lavernius Tucker share while they sleep.

The two of them look peaceful, limbs tangled together and with the sheets, Washington’s head against Tucker’s chest, Tucker’s dreads spread out across the pillows. No nightmares are disturbing them tonight, and Locus drinks in this sight, knowing he is intruding, but unable to make himself care.

There had been a time that Locus remembers, when Tucker had not slept peacefully. His nightmares had been haunted by Felix, among other demons. They had spent many late nights, drinking coffee or tea together, not speaking about the contents of their dreams, but instead talking about silly, banal things, both of them ignoring the dark circles under their eyes or the way that their hands trembled when they picked up their mugs.

Locus might not be able to protect Lavernius Tucker from every evil that the galaxy can create, but he can spare him this.

He steals the physical photographs with his face on them that are scattered across the room, and then he takes Tucker’s sword from its place under Tucker’s pillow, a location that Tucker had told him about once, comforting Locus about his admission that he had weapons stashed all over the base, for peace of mind.

He touches nothing to do with Junior, knowing that any potential threat to his son would cause Tucker to chase him to the ends of the earth. No, this betrayal cannot involve a threat. It’s just him returning to his old ways. In his search history, the Reds and Blues will see that he has researched the value of the swords, and they will think he intends to sell Tucker’s sword, and maybe his own, to fund wherever it is he’s going to do next.

He puts the Tucker’s sword in the cave, not wanting to bring it to Felix, who might find the temptation of a second energy sword too great and go after Tucker.

He does not bury it. He cannot bring himself to. 

He leaves no note for them, no answers or explanations. It can’t seem at all personal. His removal must be clinical, detached from their lives. He puts on his armor, and he burns the physical photographs in a corner of his room, making sure just enough of them survive so that they will know what it is, and realize that he’s destroying evidence.

When he’s done, there’s no sign that Locus was ever there.

It will be like he has vanished into thin air, just another ghost moving out of their lives.

Leaving the base feels like suffocating. Wearing his armor again is bad enough, but he walks through the base invisibly. He shouldn’t spend time on goodbyes that the others don’t get to be a part of, but he indulges himself selfishly. He will never see them again. He wants to be sure he has something good to remember.

He finds Sarge, asleep in his workshop. Lopez stares at him suspiciously from his position in the corner, but Locus just puts a blanket over Sarge’s shoulders and moves away, closing the door behind him. Even if the robot tells them what happened, none of them will understand him, or believe him if they could. Sarge will believe that Lopez did it, in his fondness and delusions.

He finds Grif and Simmons asleep on the couch instead of the room that they refuse to admit they share. Their limbs are tangled together, and they lean on each other in an intimacy they would refuse while awake. A movie plays on the television in front of them, and popcorn is scattered all over the ground.

Locus wishes Grif were awake. He would ask Locus what he was doing, perhaps even invite him to sit with them. He’d see right through Locus, and ask him what was wrong. But if he did…

Perhaps it is for the best that Grif sleeps on.

Donut is asleep in the room he shares with Doc, and Locus stands in the doorway, watching. The two of them are curled against each other. It is a tranquil image, the two of them surrounded by Donut’s fondness for frills and lace in interior design, Doc’s medical texts and yoga mat scattered on the floor.

He finds Carolina in her room, a tablet on her chest, having fallen asleep while reading the news or something similar. Locus resists the urge to take away the tablet, and place a blanket over her, or worse, to wake her up, kneel at her side, and confess what he is doing. If anyone was capable of helping him drive off Felix, it would be her, surely. He imagines her killing Felix, freeing them all from this…

But he thinks about the sound of Felix’s neck snapping, and the way that he had straightened up right after.

Felix has become more dangerous than ever, and Locus can’t take the risk. Maybe she _could_ handle him, even if Locus doubts it, but at what cost? Who would die before they put him down like a rabid dog?

It is much better that Locus is the only one to pay the debt that Felix demands. Locus will happily die a thousand times over, if it means that Felix never touches any of them.

He does not visit Washington and Tucker again. He has said those goodbyes already. Instead, he goes searching for Caboose.

Caboose is on the roof of the base, asleep in his armor. He’s sitting upright, his feet dangling over the edge, and Locus gives into his urges, and shifts Caboose, so that he is lying down in a more comfortable position.

“Sam?” Caboose asks sleepily, waking up slightly as Locus moves him away from the dangerous edge.

“Go back to sleep, Caboose,” Locus says, allowing his voice to show all the affection and exhaustion that he has been hiding these past three days. It does not matter if Caboose remembers this in the morning. The others will not listen if Caboose choses to protest Locus’ innocence, and in time, Locus’ absence will convince Caboose of the betrayal. He is no Leonard Church; Caboose will not expect him to return.

“Okay! See you in the morning!”

Nothing he could have said would have been more agonizing. Locus closes his eyes and waits until the sounds of Caboose’s snores fill the air before he goes back into the base. His _home_ , were it possible for Locus to ever have such a thing. For a while, it had felt like he’d belonged here.

He does one last sweep, and then walks out, panic rising in his chest as he realizes there is now no turning back. He goes to the beach, where Felix is waiting in the pelican, hovering above the water so that there are no marks on the sand to tell of his method of departure.

“Is it done?” Felix asks, holding the sword that both of them are bound to in his hands. He’s wearing his old armor. It’s dented and broken in places, and the paint is peeling. Felix has made no repairs, and the effect on Locus is visceral. He does not want to look, but he knows he must.

“Yes,” Locus replies, the words like ash in his mouth.

“Good. Then get in, and take off that armor.”

Felix starts the pelican, and Locus obeys, taking off his armor piece by piece. Once, he might have considered this some sort of humiliation, being forced to remove it while Felix remained armored. Now, Locus is more comfortable in his own skin and he knows that being out of armor is nothing to be ashamed of, normally. But fear sinks into his stomach as he exposes himself, vulnerable to whatever it is that Felix is planning. It’s final, removing his helmet and placing it on the table. He will never wear it again, he knows this.

Felix keeps his bargains. He won’t harm the Reds and Blues. He will take his vengeance out on Locus, and then…

Locus doesn’t know what happens then.

Felix returns from the cabin and picks up his helmet. “They’ll be waking up soon,” he says. “Let’s see if you kept your end of the deal, shall we?”

He handcuffs Locus to the railing in the pelican, and then he pulls out a tablet that shows surveillance footage of the base. Locus had spotted the cameras when he’d looked, but hadn’t removed them, despite the violation of privacy. Felix would have taken that as betrayal and slaughtered them all.

There’s no sound, as the scene unfolds. Felix makes Locus watch, and laughs and laughs and laughs, as they run around, looking for the sword, for Locus, for the destroyed evidence. They go into his room and tear it apart. They put on their armor and grab their weapons. They argue. Caboose cries. Locus tries to keep his face still and calm, but there’s no helmet to hide behind. Felix can read his expression like a book, and does so gleefully, mocking him every time he recognizes an emotion.

Messages arrive to Locus’ account, from the Reds and Blues. Felix reads them all from his helmet, mocking their voices so that Locus knows who sent which message.

“ _Where are you?”_

“ _Dude, everybody’s seriously freaking out right now, this isn’t funny.”_

_“This isn’t true, right?”_

_“When are you coming home?”_

And then finally, Washington is the one to send the final message.

_“If I see you again, I’m going to kill you.”_

Locus closes his eyes and sags in relief. It worked. They’re safe.

He doesn’t even struggle when Felix injects him with something that makes his limbs grow numb and his eyes grow heavy.

Nothing else matters.

The Reds and Blues are safe.


	2. Part II: Sufferance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first off, thank you all SO MUCH for the amazing feedback to the first chapter. I did not expect nearly that many of you to be interested in this story! 
> 
> And many of you were right when you predicted that this chapter will be when things get _bad_. 
> 
> Okay, first off, please know that you will probably be able to read chapter three, which will be more toned down again, and move more into the "comfort" part of Hurt/Comfort, without reading this one. This chapter isn't pure whump, but it's heavy on that front. So if you're at ALL nervous about your ability to read this, please do not think you need to go through this in order to be able to get to the part you're interested in. Please, look after yourself first and foremost, I will not be offended at all. 
> 
> Secondly, PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS. I've had a few people being a bit concerned over the warnings that I've attached to Ao3, so I've decided to try something a bit experimental here. I'm not sure if I'll keep it here long-term, but for the short-term, I'm going to try it. Because each section of this chapter delves into wildly different territories, I've marked each one with a Roman numeral. At the end of this author's note, I'll list the chapter warnings. Then, at the bottom, I will list which warnings are in which section in slightly more detail, so you will be able to decide for yourself if you want to read that section. I really don't know if this is overkill, but I've had some people be concerned but still want to read the fic, so I'm just trying to look after people. Let me know if this method works for you! I'm honestly very open to feedback. Also, if I missed a warning or anything, please let me know immediately so I can fix it. 
> 
> Anyways, that was a really long author's note, so let me just drop in an additional thanks to Lem for being my beta! You rock, Lem! 
> 
> WARNINGS FOR: Eye trauma, discussion of character death, psychological torture, humiliation, head shaving, physical torture, discussions about abusive/toxic relationships, non-consensual kissing, fire, blood, a lot of mockery, Felix being a dick, and generally, a lot of violence/discussions about violence.

**i.**

Locus knows this house. He recognizes the red brick face and the peeling grey paint of the door, even recognizes the street in which it is situated.

He wants to run, but there is nowhere to go.

The threat against the Reds and Blues is as effective as any restraints that Felix could have used to keep Locus there. If he flees, there is nothing to stop Felix from hunting them down. He knows that Felix lies. He knows that any promise to never touch them is as false. But he also knows this: avenging his death is personal for Felix. He will want to go after them himself, not contract it out or do it from a distance. As long as Locus remains the focus of Felix’s vengeance, he cannot kill them.

Locus will allow Felix to do whatever he wishes, to avenge every insult, every injury, as long as he can stay alive. Never before has he been so grateful for Felix’s tendencies to play with his food; it buys the others time, at the very least.

Time is precious. Locus will give them as much as he can.

So he allows Felix to lead him into the house, hoping there is only symbolism and irony in the choice of location, not a reoccurring motif.

The door opens, and Locus sees that Felix has cleaned up, since the last time they were here. There is no trace of the blood splatter that had decorated the plaster. There is no sign of the bullet holes in the wall behind them.

Siris’ safehouse stands clean and innocent looking, as if Felix and Locus never broke in here to murder their former partner in cold blood.

Every instinct Locus has says to attack Felix again, but Felix has already proven that course of action to be useless. Whatever he has become, he is immune to Locus’ blows and strikes. And if he fights back, their bargain is forfeit. It will all be for nothing.

Felix grabs his hand and steers him into a room just off the atrium, past the scene of the slaughter.

There’s a chair in the middle of the room, with straps attached to the arms and legs, and Locus doesn’t fight as Felix presses him down into the chair and straps him in place. Locus tests their strength out of habit more than anything; this is humiliation, not restraints. He has already agreed to allow Felix to do whatever he wants. He will not fight back, will not struggle, will not protest.

Felix looks at him. “Remember what we used to say?”

Locus swallows. “We need each other to survive,” he repeats. A mantra which the alien A.I. had turned on its head in a single instant.

“It stopped being true at some point, didn’t it?” Felix looks almost pensive as he stands in front of him, tossing a knife from one hand to another. It’s a familiar gesture. Felix never stands still, always moving, always talking, always needing something to do with his hands. “You figured out you didn’t need me, so you killed me, and I…” Felix grins and gestures to himself. “Well. Survival isn’t really my problem, is it?” He steps closer to Locus. “I’m not going to do anything about _that_ , but…” He grins, and Locus can’t help but feel like there should be blood on his teeth. “I think we can fix that about you.”

“What do you mean?” Locus feels far away and aloof from all of this. But he is keenly aware of his own heartbeat, which sounds fast and loud within his ears. His mind is detached from all of this, but his body is keenly aware of the danger. Perhaps it is for the best that Felix has restrained him. Locus is not sure how much he could contain his self-preservation instincts, which scream at him that he is in danger.

Felix grabs his chin and tilts Locus’ head back, forcing him to look at him. Felix’s eyes look exactly as they always have; a cold and cruel hazel. He does not look like a walking corpse. But the scars on his face have not healed at all in the days that have passed. “By the time I’m done with you,” Felix hisses, his playful mood gone, “you’re not going to be able to walk across a room without my help.”

“How do you intend to do that?” Locus asks. The thought of being dependent on Felix is… terrifying. He remembers those early days, before Chorus but after they had killed Siris in this house, when he had barely been able to speak or get up in the mornings. He thinks of the vulnerability of that state, and now he pictures a Felix set on vengeance, in control of him like that.

Felix doesn’t respond with words, instead taking out his knife and pressing it against Locus’ right eyelid. Locus’ breath hitches, and he struggles to remain perfectly still, even though it’s pointless.

“You never did explore this house, did you?” Felix says. “It should be very fun, seeing you try to figure out the layout. Stumbling around, tripping over furniture… you’ll need my help for _everything_.”

He has seen many sights, beautiful and wonderful, in his life. The stars above a perfectly still ocean, untrodden snow, the Reds and Blues gathered around a fire, Lavernius Tucker’s face, tilted skyward in a laugh…

But instead, his former partner’s laughing face as he carves out Locus’ eyes is the last thing that Locus ever sees.

* * *

**ii.**

Blindness is not a state of being which Locus has ever prepared himself for. With his helmet, it had been years since he had been in total darkness. Heat vision and other such technologies were always at hand, ensuring that, even in the darkest of nights, he had some idea of where he was going.

But now, there is nothing but darkness. All-encompassing, helpless, suffocating darkness.

There is no time to adjust to his new state of being, or even for the fresh wounds on his face to heal. Felix ensures that. Adjustment might make things easier, and that can never be allowed.

“Rise and shine, partner!” Felix sings, his voice removing Locus from his dozemore effectively than a bucket of ice water.

He’s slept little since he lost his sight, tossing and turning on the small mattress he has been allocated as a bed. The pain from his injuries is extensive, and Felix keeps him awake, only allowing him small snatches of rest before rousing him again. Apparently, Felix’s new state requires little to no sleep, and he’s been using this to his advantage.

There has been no torture, despite Felix’s promises and Locus’ restricted sleep schedule. Instead, Felix forces him to fumble through a mockery of domestic life. He wakes up, and a meal is cooked. Felix feeds him, helps him dress, and even has to assist him in relieving himself. Then he is left to wander the house, following Felix. But Felix moves the furniture constantly, causing Locus to fall on his face, especially when he tries to maneuver on his own. Felix is wants Locus to be dependent on him.

The worst part is, it’s working.

The scent of rotting flesh taints everything now. Locus knows he is not imagining it, although he is not sure that Felix is the source. It would be just like him to have a corpse stashed somewhere in one of the rooms Locus cannot access, or even to hide meat around the house to fill the air with the scent. Locus wishes he could get used to it, but it seems that he cannot. It reminds him of the room where he had found Washington and Carolina, and he gags every time he realizes it.

At night, the few times he is allowed to sleep, his dreams are filled with the dead, and the dying, and the sound of Felix’s neck snapping between his hands.

He comforts himself with this: the Reds and Blues are safe. It is him, not any of the others, in this house that smells of death. Agent Carolina’s clear green eyes, Lavernius Tucker’s deep brown eyes, Dexter Grif’s long-lashed brown eyes, are unmarred.

Locus can withstand anything, as long as that remains true.

* * *

**iii.**

Once the damage to his eyes starts to heal, Locus knows what will come next. Felix has been oddly gentle as he cares for Locus’ wounds. The surprising care tells Locus that there is something significant about the damaged. Something humiliating, probably, or something that feeds into Felix’s strange and twisted sense of humor, which has only managed to increase with death.

Grif asked him, when he first came to the island to bring him to rescue the others, if he had missed Felix.

It was a question that, at the time, Locus had not known how to answer.

And now, screaming as Felix holds him down, pressing the flame of a blowtorch against his skin, Locus still doesn’t know.

This behavior is not out of character; had Locus been asked, during Chorus, before the A.I., to list what he believed Felix would do to someone who had betrayed him as Locus had, this would have made his list.

With the benefit of hindsight, without the cool distance that had helped him during Chorus, Locus can see the manipulation, the lies, the cruelty. He has seen true comradery in the Reds and Blues. He knows what kindness looks like, he knows what Felix had pulled him towards was terrible and wrong.

But it was also his own fault; he had not gone into his partnership with Felix blindly; he had gone willingly, knowingly. He had committed awful crimes, and done horrible things. He just had not _cared_ ; they had not mattered. Not the people, not the lives, not the world itself. He had seen the cost of his actions and it had not touched him, because he had not allowed it to. The walls he had constructed around himself were thick, but Felix had only supplied him with additional bricks, nothing more.

He could have easily been a monster, with or without Felix’s help. And yet…

 _Your partner is afraid of you_.

He might have had a hand in making _Felix_ as he was, even before death and betrayal had unhinged him further.

How could he miss Felix? He could not call this behavior now out of character. It was not a departure from the man he had known and called his partner. Felix would have done this, even if not to Locus; he had done all of this before, if not in the exact same way. The cruel words he whispers now in Locus’ ear are often mirrors to things he had said before.

“I wish you could see it, Locus. I’m making it so your outside matches your inside. All fucked up and broken. What was it Washington liked to call you? Oh right. A _monster_.” The flames lick at the inside of Locus’ wrist, and he screams.

Try as he might, Locus cannot think of a time where there was not something poisonous to Felix. He cannot think of a time where Felix would not have done exactly this to someone who had betrayed him, this deeply, this personally.

Everything they ever had is soiled; those good times, the days when Siris was there with them, the days when they were Sam and Isaac, the kind moments, the affection… Locus misses them keenly, with a pain that racks his entire body, almost as badly as the physical wounds Felix is currently dealing him, but he knows he should not.

They were merely precursors for all of this; for the suffering their partnership would cause.

Locus screams, but Felix will not increase or decrease his onslaught because sound has occurred. He takes as much joy from Locus’ stoicism and silence as he does from his cries and tears. He cannot save himself pain, so instead Locus remains silent or yells as he chooses. It is one of the few choices he has left. Felix has not yet tried to take this from him, although surely, he will eventually.

Felix will not allow Locus to retain anything for too long, in this new order of things. He will strip Locus from whatever it is the moment Locus has allowed himself to adjust to it.

Locus screams and hates Felix, and when Felix finally leaves him, Locus remains where he was left, in a pile on the ground. He is too hurt to seek out anywhere he might be able to hide from Felix, even if it’s just for a few moments, to give himself another few minutes of rest.  

He tastes blood; he bit his tongue too hard again. He will need to be more careful. Despite the pain he inflicts constantly, Felix has never provided Locus anything to bite down upon, nothing to stop him from biting off his own tongue. Locus knows that it would have occurred to Felix; he either hopes Locus _will_ , or he takes pleasure from making Locus squirm.

When he finally sleeps, Locus dreams of better times, when they had trusted each other.

* * *

**iv.**

Felix drags him out of those dreams, tugging him off the floor by his hair.

“Wake up, Locs!” Felix forces him to kneel, and Locus clenches his teeth against the pain. “Something special for you today!”

Locus wishes he had not grown so dependent on his helmet to conceal his emotions. He tries hard to keep his face steady, but he knows that Felix sees something. His laugh is telling enough.

“Come on,” Felix says, finally helping Locus to his feet. Locus wavers for a moment, shaky with exhaustion and hunger, but he obediently leaves his hand on Felix’s shoulder, and follows Felix through the house.

He’s moved the furniture again; yesterday, this room was empty. Now, it forms a maze. Even following Felix, Locus brushes past tables and chairs, occasionally hitting them with enough force to bruise. But Locus cannot allow himself to stop, or even to pause to curse or catch his breath. If he does, Felix will leave him behind, and Locus will have to crawl his way forward, moving towards the sound of Felix’s voice.

“Man, I’m excited for this one, you know? I’ve always wanted to do it, even before Siris.”

That makes Locus nervous; Felix is perverse and twisted, and any fantasy that he has held onto for so long, unacted upon, is only going to end in pain for himself, of that he is certain.

They’re in the kitchen now; Locus can tell by the humming of the refrigerator.

Felix leads him to a chair, and has him sit. Locus waits, wondering if it’s time for a meal, but the sounds that Felix makes are wrong.

A hand twists in his hair, yanking his head back to face the ceiling.

“This shit is getting in the way,” Felix says, and there’s a note to his voice which makes Locus nervous. “I think we can fix that.”

Slowly, almost gently, Felix gathers his hair into a ponytail. For a moment, Locus thinks that is it; it would not be the first time that Felix has feigned cruelty, only to offer up a surprise kindness. It keeps Locus off guard, just like the times when Felix pretends to be kind, only to hurt him. It is part of the games that Felix is playing, even now. Even though Locus has already given him everything, the games remain.

Twistedly, it reminds him of the one time that Grif offered to braid his hair, muttering to himself about how it was getting everywhere as he gently brushed it out, then divided it into strands. He had told Locus about his sister, Kaikaina, who had hair that was a lot like Locus’, and how he had used to do this for her when they were children. It had been a kindness Locus had savored, even then,, and now he clings to it, to keep himself detached.

But then, suddenly, his head is tugged backwards by the ponytail, and he hears something that yanks him out of that comforting memory. Metal sliding against metal, a sound that Locus knows he should know, but is unable to place, until something touches the base of the ponytail, and Locus realizes what’s about to happen.

Locus sets his jaw and tries his best not to react as Felix slowly cuts off his hair.

It’s been years since Locus has cut his hair properly. His hair grew too quickly, making regulation haircuts nearly impossible to maintain in the field, so he had long since stopped bothering. The closest he had come to cutting it was when Donut had trimmed off the split ends, early on in his stay with the Reds and Blues, and given him conditioner to help him maintain it.

The conditioner is now buried, along with the rest of the things Donut had given him.

His head feels lighter as Felix finishes his business. There’s a noise, as the ponytail slides through Felix’s fingers and hits the floor. Locus keeps his eyes shut, even though there is nothing to see.

“Hmm…” Felix’s hands move through what remains of his hair, pushing the strands around. “Looks terrible; god this shit is impossible to work with.” He laughs, his hands on Locus’ shoulders, pushing him down into the chair—Locus hadn’t even realized he was trying to stand up. “Stay there, Locs, I’ll get you fixed up.”

He leaves, and Locus reaches up to touch his own hair, trying to figure out how it would look. It is vanity, he knows, to care about that. There is no one here to see him, but he wants to _know_. The ends feel uneven, but he is not sure if that is actually the case. How is a blind man supposed to know if a haircut is acceptable?

He remembers Tucker’s reaction, the first time he’d seen him without his helmet. _“Dude, okay, that’s not fair, your hair is prettier than mine_. _”_ And then Washington had laughed, honestly _laughed_ , the first time Locus had heard that noise since the bullet had gone through Washington’s throat, and said, _“Now we both know that’s not true. Close, maybe.”_

Felix returns without a word, and Locus just closes his eyes in resignation as he hears the sound of an electric buzzer.

“This is what soldiers are _supposed_ to look like, remember?” Felix says, and Locus can’t help but let out a strangled noise as the buzzer presses against his scalp. Hairs fall onto his shoulders, and Locus grips the arms of the chair and does his best to hold himself in place.

Felix is not careful, is not gentle, as he sets about removing Locus’ hair. It is humiliating, just sitting there, allowing Felix to do this, not protesting at all, not fighting back. His cheeks are warm, and his skin crawls, and he wants nothing more than for Felix to stop touching him, to stop shaving him, to just... _stop._

Locus lets out a small yelp as Felix cuts him, and Felix laughs.

“Always wanted to do this,” Felix whispers in his ear. “You cared _so much_ about this, even though you pretend you didn’t, brushing it out, even though you barely took that fucking helmet off. You pretended it was because you didn’t have the _time_ to keep it short, but I _knew._ It was _sentimental,_ wasn’t it?” His fingernails dig into Locus’ scalp, now exposed to the air and the elements and Felix alike.

Locus struggles to find something to say. At least to lie to himself, to claim that this is nothing, it was just hair. And it _shouldn’t be_ ; it is no crueler than removing his eyes or scarring his skin or—

Maybe it’s because Locus is tired, and hurting, and humiliated.

Maybe it’s because of Grif and Donut and Tucker, maybe it’s because Felix is right about the sentiment, maybe it’s because Felix has just revealed that he has _always_ wanted to do this, but…

Locus feels something damp slide down his cheeks.

Felix laughs softly in a way that sounds almost kind, but Locus knows it’s not the case. He just bows his head and says nothing as Felix finishes shaving his head clean.

* * *

**v.**

“Do you know what’s the boring part about all of this?” Felix says, about a week after he removes Locus’ hair. Today, Felix is playing his favorite game; using Locus as a dummy for his knife work“You don’t fight back.”

“That was our agreement,” Locus says, dizzy with blood loss. His cheek is pressed against something damp on the floor, and his back screams with pain from the cuts that Felix had made.

“I _know_.” He sounds petulant, which is never a good sign. “But…”

Suddenly, he starts to laugh.

Locus can’t help but think to himself that there is no sound that he hates more, not in the entire universe. He should be used to it after all these years, after all this time they’ve spent together. But the time he has spent with the Reds and Blues, hearing _real_ laughter, has made him soft. It just makes him keenly aware of the cruelty lying beneath the surface.

He grunts as Felix turns him over, hissing as his bleeding back is pressed against the floor. Felix’s knee rests on his chest, making it difficult to breathe—although it could be a broken rib. His injuries are getting hard to keep track of.

“I’ve got it,” Felix says, his face so close to Locus’ that he can feel his breath. “Tell me. What does Lavernius Tucker have nightmares about?”

Locus can’t breathe. No, no, no, he can’t, he _can’t_ —

Tucker has nightmares of the room that Donut calls the Murder Fridge, the one where Washington and Carolina had been trapped in. He has nightmares of Felix stabbing him, of the battle on the Staff of Charon, of a Freelancer named Wyoming kidnapping his son, of Leonard Church dying, of Washington getting shot through the neck.

Tucker told him these things in confidence, late at night, when both of them were racked with insomnia. Locus had been unable to confess his own nightmares most of the time; ridded as they were with his own crimes. But Tucker had talked for both of them, downplaying the severity of the events, as if they were nothing. But Locus had heard the screams. He knew better, and that offered trust had loosened his own tongue.

Felix would _use that_. Information like this will only hurt Tucker. There is no benign use for it.

“No,” Locus says. He jerks, trying to get out from under Felix, but he’s too weak. His muscle mass has been deteriorating from lack of use and food alike. It’s impossible to gauge, but Locus knows he has lost significant weight, and this is the ultimate proof. Even at his weakest, he should be able to throw Felix off him.

Felix laughs again, this time sounding nothing short but delighted. “I _knew_ you had some fight left in you.”

He sinks the knife into Locus’ shoulder, burying it to the hilt, and Locus passes out despite himself.

He wakes up to Felix bandaging his wounds, and he thinks that is the end of it.

But Felix keeps asking questions.

* * *

 

**vi.**

“You know, I don’t think I’ll kill you when I’m done with you,” Felix says. He’s sitting on Locus’s lap in a mockery of intimacy, one hand on Locus’ head, holding his face still as he drags a knife down one cheek slowly.

Locus says nothing, just bites his tongue to stop himself from crying out, and clenches his fists to stop himself from moving and making the cut worse.

“Yeah,” Felix says, more to himself than to Locus. “I don’t think I will.” He drops the knife, letting it clatter to the floor. Locus can’t help but exhale sharply in relief, even though he knows better than to think that this will be the end of today’s activities. Felix’s tongue suddenly slides against his cheek, lapping up the blood there. “Ask me what I’m going to do instead,” he orders. His body feels cold against Locus’, and the world smells of death and decay.

“What are you going to do?” Locus asks, numb and obedient.

Felix kisses him suddenly, and Locus gags at the taste of his own blood.

“I’m going to cut out your tongue,” Felix whispers, his face still too close to Locus’ own. “I’m going to sever the hamstrings in your legs, so you can’t walk. Then I’m going to drag you to Chorus. I’m going to dump you there and leave you. No one will recognize you. No one will help you. And one day, you’re going to be sitting there, in some alleyway, eating rats or whatever it is you’ll do to survive, and you’ll hear those idiot Reds and Blues, or Vanessa, or someone else who I’m going to kill. And you’ll _know_. You’ll know I’m nearby, you’ll know what I’m going to do, and you won’t be able to warn them, as I come out of the shadows and kill them. You’re going to have to just sit there and _listen_. Or maybe you’ll crawl forward, trying to yell, even though you can’t say a damn thing. But,” Felix’s thumb brushes his cheek. “They won’t recognize you. I’ve changed you so much, even those idiots who know your face won’t have any damned idea who you are. So they’ll die, and then I’ll put their hearts in your hands, and then… I’ll leave you alone again. Until the next one.”

Locus doesn’t say anything. He refuses to give Felix the satisfaction.

But that night, when he dreams, he sees that scene play out, and he wakes up screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Eye trauma, Siris' death is discussed. 
> 
> ii. psychological torture (sleep deprivation), humiliation (Locus is recently blinded and Felix denies him proper assistance). 
> 
> iii. torture (burning), discussions about abusive/toxic relationships. 
> 
> iv. humiliation (head shaving)
> 
> v. torture (knives)
> 
> vi. torture (knives again), non-consensual kissing, descriptions of violence


	3. Part III: Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I will be able to correctly outline so that I don't have to add an extra chapter at the end. This is not that time. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who stuck through the last chapter; we're back to a lot... nicer stuff now, I promise. 
> 
> Anyways, TUCKER POINT OF VIEW TIME! What have the Reds and Blues been up to? Let's find out!
> 
> Warnings for: Off-screen torture, past character death, discussions thereof, and some mild horror.

The weeks after ~~Sam~~ Locus leaves are… difficult. Tucker’s not afraid to admit that.

They’re all jumpy, angry, and hurt. There’s… a lot to handle. There’s an absence where he should be and the complicated, twisted, hurt feelings that have been left in his wake.

And the feeling of violation, because they had let him into their home, they had _trusted_ him, even after everything he’d done. They’d given him a _place_ , and how had he repaid them?

He’d stolen Tucker’s sword out from under his pillow. And then he’d left.

They’re trying to pretend things are normal, but it’s… not quite right. They all fight more—Sarge has declared war on the Blues at least five times.

And to make matters worse, Grif and Caboose refuse to _believe it_.

Even with all the evidence, even with the missing pictures, the cleaned out room, the deleted messages, even with Tucker’s _sword_ , they both keep insisting Locus wouldn’t have done that. Grif has even gone so far as to suggest they go _after_ him.

Whatever. Tucker doesn’t care. He’s retired; it’s not like he really _needs_ the sword.

Even though he feels off balance without it.

Months pass. Caboose stops looking for Locus in the showers and under the beds. They don’t hear anything, and they all kind of just… accept that the next time they hear from Locus, it’s gonna be because Kimball’s finally gotten her hands on him and put him on trial. Or they just won’t hear from him ever again.

It’s a nice, normal morning. Grif and Simmons are watching Grifball on the sofa, bickering about something that Tucker doesn’t care about. Wash and Sarge are arguing about the crossword puzzle, and Carolina is helping Tucker in the kitchen. Donut is braiding Caboose’s hair, while Lopez comments on his progress in Spanish, and honestly Tucker isn’t sure where Doc is—he thinks he remembers the guy saying something about frying tomatoes up for breakfast, so he might be in the garden.

And that’s when the TV fizzles and lets out a loud, horrible screech, like nails against a chalkboard. Tucker drops the spatula, clapping his hands over his ears. “What the _fuck_?”

The image of the players on the Grifball field is gone completely, replaced by an ominous looking black screen, with a single green horizontal line through it.

“What the Samhill is going on—”

Then it starts to speak.

“You could end this, you know.” The voice is artificial, strange, filtered. Absurdly, Tucker is reminded of the way that Locus’ voice sounds when speaking through the filter of his helmet.

“Simmons!” Wash barks.

“It’s not me! It’s some sort of… recording?” Simmons has gotten to the TV, and is fiddling with the wires attached to the receiver. “I don’t know what’s happening!”

“No.” Locus’ voice comes out next, and they all stop flat. The line on the screen jumps with his voice. His voice is unfiltered by his helmet, and there’s something off about it, but Tucker can’t figure out why…

“Let’s try this again,” the voice says, and suddenly, Locus screams.

“Tell me about how the Epsilon A.I. was destroyed.”

There’s a loud crashing noise, and he sees, out of the corner of his eye, that Carolina has broken a coffee mug.

Tucker’s stomach drops, and his head pounds, as Epsilon’s words pound in his head.

 _Not this time, buddy_. He reaches out, and Wash is there, and he grabs onto his shoulder, not even looking at him, just… holding. He told Locus about that, he remembers. It had been a rough night, with Epsilon ripping himself to pieces inside his brain, over and over again, and he couldn’t go to Wash about this, because Wash _gets it_ , but it’s... different.

So instead he had talked it over with Locus, in the kitchen, drinking coffee at three in the morning.

“ _No_.” And Tucker knows why his voice sounds wrong now—he’s in pain, this is… this is…

There’s an awful, loud buzzing sounds, and Locus screams again—louder this time, and it goes on for longer.

“You can end this,” the voice says softly. “Just tell me what I want to know about the Reds and Blues, and this all stops.”

“I said _no_.”  

“Turn it off!” Tucker yells at Simmons. “Jesus, turn it—”

“I can’t!” Simmons yells. “I can’t tell where it’s coming from, it’s too strong—”

Locus keeps screaming as they argue, and Caboose is just staring at the TV, the broken remains of a chair in front of him. Tucker can’t even be mad—he wants to break a chair too, wants to destroy everything in the fucking kitchen, because what _is_ this, this is—

“Your loyalty is sweet. But we both know it won’t last.”

“It will,” Locus snarls, and his voice is ferocious and angry and protective and—

The recording ends abruptly.

Five seconds later, Grif throws a chair into the TV.

“Damn it!”

“We are going now, right?” Caboose says, his voice very flat and dangerous. It feels _wrong_ to hear Caboose talk like that. “Sam is in trouble, and we need to help him.”

“Caboose…” Tucker says, floundering for words. He wants to puke. He wants to ask Wash if he knows what those noises were, what they were doing to Locus. He wants to pretend that the last few minutes haven’t even happened.

The eggs are burning on the stove, and Tucker can’t even start to make himself care.

“No, we’re not going to rescue him!” Simmons says, his voice high but uncertain. “I mean, he betrayed us… right?”

“He left, Caboose,” Wash says, his expression completely blank. “He made his choice.”

“But he’s our _friend_!”

“No, he’s not!” Tucker says. He’s rattled, rattled to his core, but he manages to pull himself together. Why the fuck should he care about Locus? The guy _left_ , he fucking left, just like— “Look Caboose, didn’t you fucking pay attention? He _left_. He didn’t say goodbye! He burned the pictures! And he fucking stole my sword, so he could sell it on the alien black market!”

Caboose just sighs loudly, turning to face him. “Tucker, you are very bad at the finding game. _I_ found your sword _ages_ ago! Sam will be very sad that you could not find it.”

Tucker freezes.

“What?”

“Caboose,” Wash says in that strangled, careful way that he gets when things are very wrong but he doesn’t want them to know about it. “I think you should show us where you found Tucker’s sword.”

Caboose crosses his arms, looking extremely put out. “But that is not how the finding game goes!”

“Yeah,” Grif says, nodding, as if what Caboose said makes perfect sense, “but you see, Tucker’s already lost. So the game’s over, so you need to show us where it is now, so we can call Sam and tell him that he won.”

“Oh!” Caboose lights up. “Then he’ll come home, right?”

Grif hesitates, not looking at the others. “Maybe.”

That’s good enough for Caboose. He immediately charges out of the base, barreling towards the heart of the island.

“Maybe it’s _his_ sword,” Tucker says as they follow Caboose out, after several reminders to him to slow down. “I mean it can’t be mine, right? Why would he just… move it? Maybe he lost his and thought mine would work for him, or he could sell it, or something.” There’s something unpleasantly heavy in his gut. He doesn’t know what to make of this, how to handle this.

Locus had used them to lay low, had gained their trust, used the time to heal, and then gone back to his mercenary life, burning all evidence that he had been there, and stealing Tucker’s sword to fence to shady collectors. That’s what they’d figured out, from reconstructing the remains that he had left behind.

He hadn’t really cared, or if he had, it didn’t mean anything. Tucker had told him where he kept his sword, and then Locus had _taken it_. And Tucker had been stupid and trusting and thought that he could _open up_ to this guy, just because he also had nightmares about Felix.

“ _Or_ ,” Grif says, “ _Maybe_ bad guys wanted _his_ sword, and like, threatened Locus to get him to bring it to them so they could use it, but he didn’t want them to get it, so he took yours and hid his! To pull one over on the bad guys!”

“They’d have to kill him to get that to work,” Simmons says, and all of them flinch at that. The screams from the audio recording seems to bounce between all of them, louder every second. They’re all tense and upset. None of them have any idea how to handle this, not even Wash and Carolina, who know how to handle _everything_.

Grif visibly deflates. “Okay, so let’s hope it’s not that.”

Caboose leads them past the meth-shroom fields, past the dinosaur graveyard, and to a cave, tucked between two mountains, guarded by jagged looking rocks. It doesn’t look very big, but Caboose moves between the rocks and then turns a sharp right, and Tucker realizes it’s basically a full-on cavern, hidden in plain sight.

And sure enough, perched carefully on a flat, smooth grey rock that resembles a bench, is Tucker’s sword.

It’s definitely his, not Locus’. After all these years, Tucker knows his sword. He knows the nicks and imperfections of it and the way it sits in his hand just right. The weight of Locus’ sword is different; just a little off, the grip doesn’t fit in his hand correctly. Tucker had grabbed it from Locus a few times, as a joke or during sparring, and he _knows_ , even before he flicks his wrist in just the right way… Locus stole Tucker’s sword from under his pillow, only to hide it in a cave.

The sword springs to life in his hand, and Tucker should feel relieved more than he is. But there’s a knot of something in his chest. Because now, he has even less understanding about _why_ Locus left.

There had definitely been searches on his computer about the value of the swords. Simmons had shown the evidence to all of them, nervous and stuttering and not wanting to look at them.

It could have been an accident, but Tucker can’t think of _how_.

Had Locus… wanted Tucker to think he had stolen it? Why would he do such a thing?

“Wash,” Carolina says, her voice odd and distant. She’s down on one knee, one hand pressed against the dirt floor of the cave. “Someone’s been digging here.”

“Oh, the shovel is in the corner,” Caboose says, sitting on the rock. Looking closer, Tucker can see the lines are too clean, too artificial. Locus must have cut the stone with his sword to make a seat.

This was his place, Tucker realizes. This was… all of them had a little place on the island, just for them. He had a rock up on the cliffs, Wash had clearing that overlooked the sea, Simmons had a room in the basement of the Red Base…

And Locus had hidden his sword _here_.

It feels like a message; like there’s something that Tucker should know, that there are _answers_ here, just outside of Tucker’s reach.

Tucker goes to get more shovels from Blue Base, because if Locus has buried anything, Tucker is going to help them find it.

It doesn’t take too long for them to excavate the floor of the cave. But what they find makes Tucker sick to his stomach, because it’s not what he expected at all.

Somehow, because it’s Locus, Tucker had expected… buried treasure, or maybe a body, or _something_ dark and sinister. Maybe even a carved stone tablet with an explanation, because Locus is dramatic as fuck like that, and totally would.

But he didn’t expect this.

It’s everything that’s missing from the base, or at least most of it. Locus had buried his life, not destroyed it like Tucker and the others had assumed.

“Fuck,” Grif calls, stopping Tucker from finishing his thought. He’s standing on the edge of the hole. He hadn’t helped, of course, instead making digging noises with his mouth while sitting on Locus’ bench, but he’s been watching the whole thing with an expression that Tucker can’t quite place.

Grif jumps into the hole, which delights Donut inordinately, and grabs a large, heavy duty, black box. He pulls it towards him, and opens it.

“That was locked,” Carolina says, leaning against her shovel. She’s streaked with sweat like the rest of them, but her eyes are sharply focused on Grif.

“Locus’ code for everything is 2-4-1-1-0,” Grif says absently, and Tucker _really_ wants to know that story. Grif and Locus’ friendship is something that he never quite managed to understand, but how the hell had Grif managed to learn Locus’ _lock code_? “Guys. He buried his guns.”

Tucker stops cold, as does everyone else. They all look at each other, trying to process what they’ve just heard, and Tucker has no idea where even to _begin_.

“So,” Carolina drawls, almost casually, but her spine is ramrod straight and her mouth is a thin, dangerous line. “I think we can safely say he didn’t leave to do mercenary work.”

“He didn’t take Tucker’s sword, or his other weapons,” Wash says. He opened one of the other containers and holds Locus’ old tea mug in his hands. “So why did he leave?”

“To protect us,” Grif snaps. “Didn’t you guys _listen_? They were asking him questions about _us_. He must have figured out that we were in trouble and was… fucking scared they’d use him or something, so he ran, so we wouldn’t get hurt.”

“We don’t know how long they’ve had him,” Simmons points out. “For all we know, they just randomly captured him.”

“And asked him questions about us? We haven’t exactly been telling people that he’s our friend!”

“He’s _not_ ,” Tucker mutters, but it’s half-hearted.

“Bullshit,” Grif snaps. “Don’t you guys get it? He didn’t betray us; he did this to _protect us_.”

“Oh come off it,” Tucker scoffs, walking over to Wash to look through the box where the mug had been in. In it is every weird flavor of tea that Doc had bought for him. Even the ones that Tucker _knew_ Locus had hated, even the ones that had smelled like gasoline and tasted like ass. He had kept them all and buried them in this box. “If we were in danger, why wouldn’t he just _tell us_?”

“Fuck if I know! But he’s somewhere, being tortured for information about _us_. He’s our _friend_ , and he’s being _hurt_ , and we need to _help him!_ ” Grif can move quickly when he wants to, and he’s right up in Tucker’s space, arms crossed, something genuinely furious and righteous in Grif’s face. It’s rare to see Grif like this, and Tucker has no idea what to _do_.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Wash says, stepping between them and using a voice which totally means he thinks Grif is wrong, “But we have no idea where to start looking for him. They didn’t exactly give us an _address_.”

“Oh, don’t get your cerulean knickers in a twist about that, Agent Washington,” Sarge says. He’d left a while ago, but now he’s back, Donut on one side, Doc on the other. “I called that reporter lady, an’ she called someone who called a fellow who had a third cousin once removed who knows a gal whose roommate knows how to pinpoint the origin of a radio signal.”

Tucker stares at Sarge, and he’s not the only one.

“We can’t let a Red remain in enemy hands!” Sarge says proudly. “I’ve got the location!”

“He’s not a red,” Tucker says automatically. He _should_ point out that Locus left, that he betrayed them, but God, he’s not sure if he believes that anymore, and that’s…

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

His fingers curl around the hilt of his sword.

“Yes,” Caboose agrees with him. “He is a blue.”

“He’s not _either_ ,” Wash interrupts.

“Yay neutral!”

“Shut up, Doc. Do we really want to do this?” Wash’s hand is unexpected on Tucker’s shoulder, but it’s not unwelcome. Tucker leans back into the touch, closing his eyes. “We could be walking into a trap.”

None of them say “again”, but they’re all thinking it. Tucker wants to turn to Wash, to put his hands all over Wash’s scars, to remind himself that he’s still there, but instead he does nothing, because the others are around, and Wash is alive…

Because of Locus.

“I want answers,” Tucker hears himself saying. “I don’t care about that guy—” Grif makes a cough that suspiciously sounds like _bullshit_ “—but I want to know what the _fuck_ is going on here.”

“Look,” Simmons says, looking nervous, glancing between Tucker and Grif. “No offense, but like… Locus is scary-good at this stuff. Like… fighting. And not getting caught by the proper authorities.” He clears his throat. “Whoever… this is, they either scared him enough into leaving—”

“To _protect us_ ,” Grif says. He’s holding Locus’ sniper rifle in his hands.

“Maybe,” Simmons says, doubtful. “Or at least, they caught him. Chorus couldn’t do that, and his armor isn’t here—”

“It’s not?” Tucker blinks, glancing at the other containers, which he had assumed would contain the infamous Locus armor. But Caboose and Donut have opened all of them. And instead of the familiar helmet, Tucker sees balls of string, glittering keychains, pressed flowers, and weirdly shaped rocks.

They have his weapons—the sniper rifle that Grif is holding, the shotgun he uses in close quarters combat, several combat knives, and a magnum which Tucker has never seen Locus use. But there’s no sword, and there’s no armor.

Tucker can’t figure out what this means.

It would be nice to believe Grif. To be able to put to rest months of hurt.

It would be nice, if he could pretend that the morning, when he’d reached under his pillow to hold his sword, only to find it missing, along with photos on the wall, and ~~Sam~~ Locus… it would be really nice if he could pretend that it had never happened.

It would be nice to pretend that Locus hadn’t wanted to leave.

But Tucker wasn’t sure that he was capable of that.

“It’s probably a trap,” Wash repeats. “Do we really want to walk into that?”

“Oh c’mon Wash!” Donut calls. “If we can’t deal with a whole roomful of guys—”

Wash lets out a small laugh and presses his forehead against the back of Tucker’s head briefly.

“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s go.”

* * *

 

Sarge’s coordinates take them to a civilized planet, in the middle of fucking _suburbia_.

“This is it?” Tucker says, incredulous. All the houses look identical. There are _lawns_.  

“Oh! I know what to do!” Caboose gasps. “We need to knock on doors and ask them if they have seen Locus!”

“He’s not a _dog_ , Caboose—”

But Caboose has already bounded up the steps to the door of the nearest house, and is ringing the doorbell excitedly.

“They might have seen something,” Carolina says, sounding vaguely amused. “This was probably a drop point, to throw us off the scent. But we might be able to pick up the trail here.”

Sighing, Tucker moves up the steps to join Caboose.

The door opens, and there is a woman on the other side.

Her hair is the color of steel, trimmed into a severe bob cut. Her face is lined and worn, and she holds herself like Wash does sometimes.

Tired, wary, but ready to fight if need be.

“What do you want?” It’s only then that Tucker realizes that they’re all in full armor, and how that must look to this woman, wearing a neat looking suit.

Wash recovers first, stepping forward. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. But a friend of ours went missing around here.”

Her eyes soften slightly, and her arm drops down from behind her back, where she’s probably got a pistol tucked. “Do you have a picture? I can’t say I remember anything, but maybe I’ve seen him around.”

Just as Tucker is about to say no, because Locus destroyed their pictures of him, Grif produces one. “Here,” he says, and Tucker realizes with a jolt that Grif must have pilfered one of the pictures which Locus had buried.

Tucker wishes for a moment that _he’d_ thought of it.

It’s a good picture. Caboose had taken it; Caboose has a shockingly good eye for photos. Even though half of his pictures are of weird shit that Tucker can’t understand, usually of random objects in strange focuses.

Caboose calls them his blue period.

The photo is of Sam, and only Sam, cradling his mug of tea, the corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile, although his mouth barely has twitched upwards, responding to some joke of Donut’s that Tucker can’t even remember. The light from the windows pours over him, rich and gold and soft. He looks peaceful, at home with himself for once, his eyes looking right at the camera, his long hair flowing over his shoulder, out of its ponytail.

Grif hands the photo over to her, and the woman immediately gasps. “Sam?”

The picture tumbles from her hands, falling to the ground, and she looks at them with wide, horrified eyes.

“You know him?” Grif demands.

“He was friends with my husband,” she whispers. “He’s—I didn’t even know he was _alive_.”

“Your husband?” The only friend Locus had that Tucker knows of is Felix. And this woman looks too… normal. And not dead. To be married to Felix.

“Yes. He went missing about ten years ago.” Her face is pale as a sheet. She bends over to pick up the picture of Locus, holding it like its something delicate and precious. “I got his head in the mail three months later.” Tucker flinches. _God_ , he hopes they’re not dealing with the same people. She looks up at all of them. “I’m sorry, how do you know him?”

“We’re… friends,” Wash says. “I’m Washington, this is—”

“You’re the Reds and Blues,” she says, realization dawning on her face. “I’m Megan Wu. You better come inside.”

* * *

There are pictures on the walls as Megan leads them in, all of them self-conscious and awkward in their armor. The pictures show three kids, growing up slowly, going from babies to kids to teenagers to adults in the photos, with the newest looking ones showing them in their early twenties.

Megan is in most of these photos, and there’s a man in some of the older ones, but he vanishes once the oldest looking kid looks to be about high school age. There’s a military portrait, and at least one of the photos shows that he’s got a mechanical leg. He’s got an expressive face, with a scar going through one of his eyebrows.

She leads them into the living room, where she picks up one picture from above the mantelpiece, and wordlessly hands it to Tucker, who is standing closest to her. He nearly breaks the frame in shock.

Felix’s face stares out at him, smirking as he sits on the couch that’s in this room. One of his arms is tossed over Locus’ shoulder, while his other arm is around the man from the photos in the hallway, who must be Megan’s husband.

“I haven’t seen Sam in about… ten years or so?” Megan says, sitting down in one of the armchairs, and gestured for them all to do the same. “He didn’t come by often—he was shy. I don’t think he liked kids much. And when Mason left the life, he stopped calling.” She shakes her head. “Honestly, I thought he was dead.”

“The life?” Carolina takes the picture from Tucker, examining it.

“Bounty hunting,” she says wryly. “He went by Siris on that circuit—the three of them were so strange with their code names, especially Sam. Isaac was nearly as bad though.”

“Isaac?” Tucker says, feeling like there’s a blockage in his throat, trying to choke him. He hasn’t seen Felix’s face, outside of his nightmares at least, since before the betrayal. Seeing it now… he’s caught off guard. He feels dizzy, and sits down on another one of the chairs, only just reminding himself to be careful so his armor doesn’t crush it.

“Felix was what he called himself, when it was that sort of business,” she says, her expression strangely blanked. “He was… trouble. More so than Sam.”

“I’m sure,” Wash says. He passes the photo to Grif, barely sparing it a glance.

She looks up, something sharp in her eyes that reminds Tucker of the fact that she had brought a gun to the door. He had spotted the gun when she’d picked up the photo; military issue, and new enough that he doubts it’s her dead husband’s. There’s something dangerous about this woman. “Don’t tell me _he’s_ missing too,” she says. “I’d hate to have to kick you out of here for trying to rescue that son of a bitch.”

“He’s dead,” Tucker says.

Her eyes flicker to him, and he sees a small smile. “Good. Did you do it?”

“Good?” Grif echoes. Doc is looking at the photo now. “I thought this guy was your friend.”

“He was _Mason’s_ friend,” she says, her eyes flickering to Grif. “About three months after Mason left, before he went missing, Isaac came to visit. Without Sam, which was always odd. Those two were practically attached at the hip.” She accepted the photo back from Donut, and stood up to place it on the fireplace mantel again. “They… fought. I’m not sure what about. All I know is that I came home from work and my daughter was crying, because Uncle Isaac and Daddy had been yelling and calling each other names, and Mason wouldn’t talk to me about what had happened.”

Her mouth thins into a line. “He was… different, after that. Jumpy. He thought someone was following him, so one day, he got up and left. He left me a note. Said it was _safer_ this way.” She sat down hard. “Later, I figure out that he’d gone to ground. He had a safehouse, in the city. But it didn’t matter. _Whoever_ it was that killed him,” her voice left it perfectly clear that she didn’t consider that to be a great mystery, “they knew where it was. And three months after he walked out of that door, my oldest wakes up the entire house screaming because she opened a package on our doorstep, with Mason’s head inside.”

“… you think Felix killed him?” Tucker says. He looks up to the picture, and Felix’s grin.

“I _know_ he did,” she snaps.

Tucker glances at Locus in the picture. He looks… _young_. There’s no hints of silver in his hair and fewer worry lines around his mouth and eyes. The smile on his face seems a bit wider, a bit less cautious, and he’s not flinching away from Felix’s arm like he almost always would when Tucker or the others would touch him. Felix is younger too, but there’s something almost ageless about the way he is. The smile is the same; smarmy and confident and charming.

He wonders why Megan kept the picture, if she thinks Felix killed her husband.

Simmons groans. “Great. If Locus isn’t here, this is a dead end!”

“No,” Wash says softly. “It’s not.” He takes off his helmet. “Ms. Wu. I’m sorry to have to ask you this but… do you know the address for that safe house?”

Her mouth is a thin line as she looks at Wash. Her expression is completely unreadable. “Why do you think he’d be there?”

“Because we were lead here for a reason,” Wash says. “We were sent a… recording, of Locus, and it supposedly originated just outside of your house. And I think they wanted us to hear this story. They wanted us to find you.”

“… it’s been three months since Locus left,” Tucker says, the pieces sliding into place. His stomach churns at the thought of it.

Her eyes turn to him, horrified, and her chin goes up. “He’s the one on the news, isn’t he? Wanted for war crimes on that planet?”

They all look at each other and don’t say anything.

“Who has him?”

Carolina is the one to speak this time. Her body is a stiff line, uncomfortable in this setting, sitting in one of the plush purple armchairs, her arms awkwardly folded in her lap. “We’re not sure.”

Megan gets to her feet, and crosses the room to a coffee table, with a pad of paper and a pen lying on it. She scribbles out an address and holds it out to Tucker. Her handwriting is clear, precise, and large, and the address is not too far from here.

“When you find him,” she says, her voice booking no argument. “Tell him Megan would like a word.”

“You sure you don’t want to come with us?” Tucker asks. He can see the pistol, tucked into the waistband of her skirt still, and the scars on her hands tell him that she’s an old soldier too, even if he hasn’t spotted a picture of her in her uniform yet.

She looks away, and she looks exhausted and old. “I’ve been there once. The things I saw… I’m not going back there. Never.” She sits back down, smoothing out the lines of her skirt. “You should hurry,” she says, her voice distant. “They’re probably keeping an eye on this house, whoever they are. And they might not wait until you’re there to finish things.”

“Yes! We need to go find him!” Caboose says, all excited now. He’s been uncharacteristically silent through all of this, but he grabs Tucker and pulls him towards the door. “Thank you, Missus Megan!”

They all file out of the house, lost in their thoughts.

“So,” Tucker finally says as they pile into the pelican. “Do we think that Locus helped Felix kill that guy?”

“Yes,” Grif says immediately.

“Oh duh.”

“No question.”

“I thought that went without saying.”

Something sour slides into his stomach at that. Tucker knows that Locus has done far worse things than killing an old friend, but…

It’s that old saying, isn’t it? A million is a statistic. Tucker can’t even _begin_ to try to understand the scope of what happened on Chorus. He’s seen the reports, the estimates of damage, of lives lost, and he’s heard Kimball’s speeches about lost culture and progress, but it’s so _big_ , that he can’t quite connect with it.

But there is something _personal_ about this.

He touches his sword again, just to reassure himself that it is there, as Grif starts up the pelican and they fly towards the safehouse.

Tucker takes a deep breath, takes his sword into his hands, and tries to steel himself for whatever it is that he’s about to find, inside of that place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megan! I've been really excited to get a chance to write her; I've got some fun headcanons, but haven't had a chance to use them yet! 
> 
> Hope you guys liked it! Let me know what you think; we're almost at the end!


	4. Part IV: Survival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND IT'S THE END. HOLY SHIT GUYS. WE'RE HERE. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ to everyone who's made this journey with him, thank you for your patience, your kind words, and your encouragement. Special thanks to Lem, who did a tremendous job helping me beta this wild journey. 
> 
> A few final thoughts on this; I ended up not including quite as much comfort as I might have hoped; I ended up liking the final scene, and it was getting long. Will I get back to this verse and write more comfort/healing? Maybe, it depends on my muse, which is a fickle creature sometimes. 
> 
> AND NOW, FOR THE LAST TIME, WARNINGS: Injury, body horror, death (not Locus I swear, check the end notes for who), fire, discussions of death and violence, and some long-term trauma.

“So… this is the dark, unspeakable place of horrors,” Sarge says, holding his shotgun in his hands.

“Sarge. It’s a two-story Craftsman style house.”  Wash’s voice is perfectly flat.

“Dia _bolical_!”

“Let’s go,” Carolina orders. “And be _careful_. This is a trap, remember?”

“Right.” They all get serious, looking up at the house they’re standing in front of.

It _looks_ perfectly benign; there’s a neat little stone path that leads through a perfectly kept lawn. There are flowers in the flower beds, even.

This doesn’t look like a place where Locus would be kept, but they don’t exactly have any other leads.

Caboose tugs on Tucker’s arm, drawing him to a stop. “Tucker,” he says, in that earnest, calm, quiet way he gets only when things are _really_ bad. “Do you think Sam will be okay?”

Tucker should probably say something reassuring, because honestly _he_ could use some reassurance, and saying it out loud might make him believe it. it might be good to say it out loud so that he could believe it.

But he can’t lie to Caboose, not about this. Not when they’ve only just gotten over losing Church.

 _God_ , he’s going to punch Locus, for leaving without saying goodbye, if nothing else.

“I don’t know, Caboose,” he says, just as Wash and the others get to the top of the steps which lead up to the door.

The explosion knocks Tucker backwards, and he spins towards the door, feeling his stomach drop out from under him.

“ _Wash_!”

The others have been sent flying, and are lying around the yard, some of them groaning, some of them lying perfectly still.

“Caboose, check on Wash!” Tucker yells. Grif is the only one also upright; he’d been lingering towards the back of the group and had escaped the blast with Tucker and Caboose. He’s already checking on Simmons. Tucker forces him to check on Carolina, who is out cold but alive, then goes to look at Donut—in the same situation—and Doc, who’s conscious, but groaning loudly about his leg.

“Trap,” Wash mutters. Caboose has helped him sit up, and he’s shaking, coughing, struggling to breathe. “We need to get out of here.”

“No way!” Grif says. “We need to get _Locus_ out of there! There’s no way they don’t know we’re here now!”

“Right,” Tucker says. “Grif, you watch them, Caboose and I—”

“I called Megan, she’ll be here soon to look after Carolina until she wakes up from her nap!” Caboose announces, still propping Wash up.

Tucker turns to stare at him. “When did you—you know what, never mind. Grif, follow us in when she gets here.”

Inside, the house is dark and creepy, and Tucker swallows. He’s seen this horror movie, of that he’s certain.

“Caboose, stay with me, okay?”

“Got it,” Caboose says with a nod. He holds his rifle close against his chest and keeps pace with Tucker, until they find the first staircase.

There are patches of dried blood on the carpet. The air smells rancid; like something’s burned, or rotting, or moldy. The outside had been kept up, but the inside hadn’t. The furniture is broken, or stacked weirdly. There are knives, scattered around, along with other things that look like instruments of torture. There’s a whip on the kitchen table, a blowtorch on the counter. There’s a tub of water shoved halfway into a closet, too large to allow for the door to close. This isn’t the case of the evil being tucked away in the basement like in horror movies; it’s been strewn carelessly all over the house, without a care for who is seeing it.

And this has been where Locus has been, these things have been used on him, and Tucker struggles to keep down the rage and vomit both rising within him.

Standing at the foot of the stairs, Tucker is about to start his internal debate about which way to go, when the screaming starts.

It’s impossible to tell where it’s coming from; Tucker spots speakers, embedded in the walls, and he realizes that they’re _broadcasting_ this, from wherever they’re hurting Locus, they’re…

Locus is running out of time.

“Damn it! Caboose, go upstairs, I’ll check this floor.”

“But Tucker—”

“We need to find Sam, _now_. Stay on the radio, okay? I’ll check in.”

Maybe it’s because Tucker called him “Sam,” but Caboose bounds up the stairs, three at a time, without a single complaint or comment. Tucker moves down the hallway, opening every door as he goes, until he finds one that’s locked from the outside.

He opens up his radio. “Caboose? Get down here, I found him.”

There’s nothing but static on the other end.

 _Shit_.

But he knows. This _has_ to be it. Locus is on the other side. Tucker can’t afford to go find Caboose, to call for help. He needs to go in, needs to figure out what’s going on.

Swallowing, he opens the door.

“Already?” Locus’ voice is almost light hearted, and for a moment Tucker thinks this is all some other trick, and he steps forward to give Locus a piece of his mind, when Locus moves forward into the light, and stops him dead in his tracks.

Locus has always been covered in scars; the large one on his face was the most obvious, but there had been other things, the kind of scars accumulated over a lifetime of service. Wash and Carolina had scars like that; even Tucker had a few of them.

But now, Locus is absolutely covered in marks. Knife slashes of various stages of healing are visible wherever Locus’ clothes don’t cover his skin. There are splotches of blood across his clothes tell Tucker that there are more injuries that he can’t see. There are patches of shiny, healed burns, and some that look awful and fresh. And his hair…

When Tucker had first seen Locus’ hair, he’d thought it was a joke. It had been long and silky and luxurious, kept in a neat braid at all times. It had grown too quickly, Locus had explained to Donut once, to be worth trying to keep it in a regulation haircut. Locus had always tried to play it down, but he was clearly proud of his hair, he _liked_ it long.

And it had been shaven clear off and not even neatly. There are a few healed scabs and cuts, a few loose straggling hairs just long enough to hint at something dark, cruel, and humiliating.

Tucker wants to puke; he had heard Locus screaming on the recording, but a part of him had refused to believe that this had been a thing of reality until he had the evidence right in front of him.

Locus had betrayed them, left them, and then refused to give up anything about them under torture.

It didn’t make _sense_ , the part of him that was stubborn and refused to listen to Grif screamed. Locus had always been a complicated, silent, gorgeous enigma, but Tucker had really thought he’d been getting at least _close_ to understanding him, before everything had happened.

“You’re quiet today,” Locus says, and it’s then that Tucker realizes something else. Despite looking right at him, Locus doesn’t know that it’s him. He darts forward, and his stomach churns as he spots the milky eyes staring out at him, unseeing. The scars over each eye is an “X”, a mockery of the large scar that’s impossible to dismiss, just as impossible to dismiss as the name.

“What the hell, Sam?”

Locus freezes up, his expression changing from the bland, practiced calm that he had been carefully maintaining to pure, unadulterated panic. “Tucker?”

Despite himself, Tucker drifts closer, and Locus’ hand reaches out and grabs his wrist. Tucker doesn’t pull away, almost hypnotized by this up-close view of Locus’s scars.

“You can’t be here,” Locus says, his breath coming in those short, staggered bursts that Tucker knows means a panic attack is oncoming. “You _can’t,_ Felix promised—”

Tucker reels backwards at that name. “Felix is _dead_ ,” Tucker finds himself saying, but those scars… there is a pointedness to them, a specificity, a cruelty…

Dread settles into his stomach, despite himself. The sword had burst into light in Locus’ hand, a definite argument that Felix is dead and gone, even without a body, even without confirmation…

Insults and curses whither on his tongue as Locus struggles to get to his feet, and he sees the bloody footprints marking the floor. “Fuck, Grif was right, wasn’t he? You left to protect us.”

“Yes. He would not harm you if I went with him.” His grip on Tucker’s arm is iron, and he staggers forward, closer to Tucker, close enough for Tucker to smell blood and bleach and other things that he’d rather not think about. “How did you find me?”

“He sent us a tape of him torturing you!”

Locus goes impossibly still. “To lure you in,” he whispers. “Call the others, you need to leave now.”

“ _We_ need to leave,” Tucker retorts instantly.

He doesn’t tell Locus that he still can’t reach Caboose.

“We need to move!” Locus pulls him towards the door. Captivity has not managed to fully rob Locus of his muscle or strength, although he looks thinner and generally smaller than he ever had before. Tucker follows, noticing with trepidation how Locus’ steps are wobbly and uncertain. They need to get him out of here.

“Why didn’t you tell us about Felix?” Tucker says. “We could have helped!” He thinks about a walk in the surf, of a moment so strange and precious that he has refused to even think about it since Locus left. There had been something fragile and shattered about Locus then, of the broken way that he had gasped Felix’s name. Now, there’s a certainty to that memory. He had not been talking about a nightmare. But he had been talking about whatever event had led him here, to this cell.

“No,” Locus whispers. “You couldn’t. He is… no longer human.” They stumble into the hallway. “When he first—”

“We’ll _handle it_ , okay? Just keep moving!”

Panic builds in Tucker’s stomach; hadn’t the lights been on in the hallway?

“Leave me behind,” Locus says.

“No way!” Tucker snaps, ducking under Locus’ shoulder to try to support his weight. “He’ll kill you.”

“I am no good to anyone like this. I will only slow you down, and I would rather die than see you take my place.”

“Shut up!” Tucker says, tugging Locus forward. _Fuck_ , even with the weight loss, he’s still heavy.

“Lavernius,” his voice is ragged. “ _Please_.”

“So you _do_ have a favorite!”

Felix’s voice cuts through the darkness, straight out of a nightmare. Tucker inhales sharply as he hears it. It’s like a knife slipping through his armor into his stomach, a laugh while they’re surrounded. Tucker’s never supposed to hear that sound again, like Crunchbite’s heavy breathing or Temple’s stupid voice.

But it’s here, and orange armor shimmers into view. He’d stolen Locus’ camouflage unit, along with everything else.

“I thought it was going to be Washington,” Felix continues, Locus’— _his_ —sword dangling almost lazily from his fingers, inactive. Could he even use it? “But honestly…” Felix isn’t wearing his helmet. After Felix had betrayed the New Republic, Tucker had stopped seeing him without his helmet. Tucker has never had to see Felix’s smug grin, has only had to listen to the satisfaction in his voice. But now he’s face to face with the cruel edge to the smile. “This is going to be _so_ much more fun, don’t you think Tucker?”

Locus’ warning about Felix’s inability to be killed flies straight out of Tucker’s mind, and he drops Locus to the ground and leaps forward, his sword in hand.  

Felix moves quickly, and their swords clash in a shower of sparks. In the glowing light of their blades, Tucker can see his face better.

Felix’s face is twisted into a horrific, cruel smile, even as his eyebrows furrow in concentration. Horrific scars cross his face, ageless and bloodless and clean. It’s more like cracked leather rather than broken skin.

“Hey there, Tucker. I’ve been looking forward to this!”

Tucker unlocks their blades and swings again, and Felix blocks once again, almost lazily. It’s not like sparring with Locus, or fighting Carolina with wooden swords, or even fighting the Sanghelli back in the desert all those years ago. Felix lunges forward, and Tucker knows that Felix might not want to kill him immediately, but there is intent to _harm_ in every line of Felix’s body.

“ _No_ ,” Locus is struggling to get to his feet, but Tucker has no time to spare, as Felix is bearing down on him, aiming for Tucker’s shoulder. Tucker rolls to the side and tries to lash out, but Felix leaps back, avoiding it. Death hasn’t slowed him down one bit, and Tucker’s heart starts to hammer in his own ears as he realizes that he might have made a mistake, splitting up with Grif and Caboose, or even just leaving the others behind.

But what would have happened to Locus if they had left him in there? If it had taken them any longer to find him?

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Felix says, and Tucker pivots to block Felix’s swipe. “Locus was starting to bore me. But I’ve been saving something _special_ for you.” His smile is wide and terrifying. “We’ll see if you’ve gotten any better at knives, shall we?”

Tucker thinks he hears Locus say something at that, but he can’t pay attention to him right now, focused as he is on this immediate danger. Felix is _good_ with the sword, and honestly Tucker’s not used to this kind of fighting; he fights enemies with guns, not extended sword fights with someone his own size. He’s good at what he does, he knows that, but this…

He could never have prepared for this. This is lifted straight out of his nightmares.

“I think I’ll start with your fingers,” Felix says. “One at a time. Then I’ll cut you open, nice and slow.” The light of the swords throws Felix’s face into shadows, twisting it into something inhuman and horrifying. Tucker ducks under Felix’s next strike, which slashes into the wall instead, burning wallpaper as it goes. “You know, you can survive vivisection, if it’s done correctly. And I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

“Give it up, Felix,” Tucker snarls. He moves his feet and slashes upward, forcing Felix backwards to avoid being cut in half. “The others are here, you’re outnumbered—”

“I was.” Felix blocks his next strike, and locking their blades together. Their faces are close together, and Tucker catches a whiff of something rotting. “But you guys so helpfully split up, _and_ that’s not counting the explosion. It didn’t take me long to fix that… imbalance. So it’s just you, me, and the broken soldier over there.”

“He’s lying,” Locus croaks, and Felix laughs again, and Tucker tries to tell himself that Locus is right, but the panic flares up again, and Tucker pushes forward hard, trying to break Felix’s block.

Felix stumbles backwards, caught off guard, and Tucker slashes out, knowing that Felix won’t be fast enough to block it, even if it might not be deadly against Felix’s armor.

The sword cuts through armor and Kevlar, but there is no blood.

Felix grins. “Didn’t Locus tell you? That won’t _work_.” Felix laughs, and now Tucker is the one on the defensive, blocking and ducking and weaving around Felix, trying to get in whatever hits he can. Felix might be good, but Tucker is fast and experienced, and that’s enough to keep him alive, at least for now. “No blood to spill, and nothing hurts me. Locs snapped my neck when I visited him, you know? You should have seen his _face_ when I got right back up!”

“Hey Zombie Dick!” Grif’s voice rings through the hallway, and Tucker has never been happier to hear a Red in his life. “Think fast!”

Tucker throws himself to the ground, and the cracking noise of a sniper rifle goes off. Felix curses, as the shot goes right through his back, through the center of his chest, and out his front, leaving a clean, horrifying hole behind it.

Felix growls and twists to face Grif, who’s standing next to Locus, holding the sniper rifle they had found in the cave. “Oh, you’re next—”

Tucker takes advantage of Felix’s turn and gets to his feet, plunging his sword into Felix’s throat. Gritting his teeth, he jerks his arm, so the head tumbles to the ground.

“Fuck yeah, Highlander style!” Grif shouts. He sets down his gun and starts to help Locus to his feet.

“He’s not dead,” Locus insists, his blind eyes wide and panicked, darting around as if it will do any good. “He’s not—”

“Calm down, he’s not moving,” Tucker says, reaching down to grab Locus’ sword from where Felix had dropped it. “Let’s get out of here.” They can figure out what to do with the body after they get Locus out of here. He’s still bleeding; they’ll have to get him medical attention. Plus, after Felix’s ominous comments, all Tucker wants to do is to make sure that the others are even _there_.

Locus is practically shaking as the two of them drag him out of the house, almost unable to walk at all. Some of his wounds are re-opening as they go, and Tucker can see blood streaks smearing against Grif’s armor where he’s touching Locus. Tucker is probably in the same shape.

Caboose is outside with the others when they get out of that house and turns to face them, lighting up when he sees Locus.

They’ve all gathered near the pelican. Everyone seems to be in decent shape now, weapons pointed at the house as they emerge. Megan Wu sits on the hood of a car parked next to the pelican, her gun on the hood next to her, and her eyes trained right on them.

“Sam! You are back!” Caboose says, barreling forward towards them. “Your hair is gone! Oh! Do you think it will grow back curly like mine?”

“Caboose?” Locus says, turning his head up to face him.

“What happened to him?” Wash says, moving towards them, hovering over Caboose protectively to stop him from charging forward and hug him, as if worried Locus might attack. He hasn’t noticed that Locus is blind.

“Felix was a goddamn _zombie_ ,” Grif says. “But then Tucker totally cut his head off with a sword, and it was fucking _badass_.”

“He’s not dead,” Locus says, his voice ragged. Tucker hears several people curse as they catch a good look at him. “We need to leave, now—”

Whatever thing he was going to say next is cut off with a scream, and Locus goes down to his knees, a knife in his back. Tucker grabs his sword and spins, just in time to stop Felix from grabbing the other sword from its place at his hip.

Tucker practically falls down the steps as he tries to twist away from Felix. He’s laughing as he stands in the doorway, his head sitting oddly on his shoulders, with the angle wrong. Tucker can see the line where he had cut it, and he wants to puke. For some reason, Felix isn’t wearing his armor anymore, just an ordinary-looking set of civilian clothes. It shows off the hole in his chest, where Grif had shot him.

“Fuck!” Grif yells. He’s managed to drag Locus out of the way, onto the lawn, rather than the front steps, while Locus fights his grip. The knife is still buried in his back, and Tucker sees that Felix is still branding his knives with that familiar orange stripe.

“Lavernius!” Sam says. “ _Run_!”

“It’s going to take _forever_ to sew this on properly,” Felix says, when he finally stops laughing. “You’re going to pay for that. All of you.” He steps forward. He’s got a gun in one hand, another knife in the other. “Tell you what though Tucker… let’s bargain.”

“Go to hell,” Tucker says, his grip on his sword almost painfully tight.

“Oh _c’mon,_ Tucker, you haven’t even heard what I’ve got to say!” Felix moves his knife away from Tucker to point in Locus’ direction. “ _If_ you give me back my sword, I’ll let you take Locus’ place. I won’t even kill him first. Your friends can take him and run away as fast as they can.”

“No!” Locus shouts, struggling to his feet with Caboose’ help. Grif is pointing Locus’ sniper rifle right at Felix, but he looks uncertain that it will do anything to help with this situation. Through the gaping hole in Felix’s chest, Tucker thinks he can see parts of a shattered rib.

A shot goes off anyways, ripping right through Felix’s shoulder, but Felix doesn’t flinch. Tucker can hear Carolina curse in the background. That’s why Felix had taken off his armor; he wanted them to see that their shots had hit home, and had done _nothing_.

“You can’t kill me,” Felix says. “You can’t stop me. Even if you run, I’ll hunt you all down. You’ll never know a single moment of rest, because I won’t _ever_ stop. And one by one? You’ll all die.”

Tucker grits his teeth. “Hey Caboose! I think Felix could use some _lemonade_.”

“You really think you stand a chance, _Lavernius_?”

Simmons is the one to shoot this time, and the shot goes through Felix’s cheek, knocking his head right off his shoulders.

But Felix doesn’t even hesitate, just catches his head in his hands before it can hit the ground, and places it right back. After all these years around Lopez, Tucker should be used to this sight.

But nothing could prepare him for this. Felix’s eyes still move in his head, even as he holds it in his hands, the wide smirk never falters. And he keeps talking the second it’s reattached, as if nothing had happened at all.

“Don’t be stupid, _Lavernius_ ,” Felix says, taking a step closer. “I’ve had my fun with Locus. But I remember what’s important. _You’re_ the one who killed me, remember?” His smile almost looks like those days with the New Republic. Softer, kinder, like a friend, instead of the twisted mockery of it that he had been seeing this whole time. “I’ll let them live, if you stay.”

“Forget it,” Tucker snarls, moving his sword in front of him, his feet moving into an offensive stance.

“Then you’ll die last,” Felix says, shrugging as if it doesn’t matter to him. “When I gut Washington in front of you, when I skin Caboose alive, when I leave you alone in a room with their bodies, unable to move… you’ll wish you’d taken my deal.”

Tucker doesn’t even know how Felix knows about Temple, knows about the fucked-up room that Wash and Carolina had been in, but he doesn’t _care_. This was what Felix had threatened Locus with; this impossible, horrible choice. The unbeatable nightmare, come back to life, threatening them all, to get Locus to come with him.

“You’re sick,” Tucker says, his mouth dry. “You can’t beat all of us.”

But even as he says it, he’s not sure he believes it. This is something straight out of a horror movie, and Tucker’s not sure if he sees a way out.

“Why not? I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, I don’t _bleed_.” He gestures at the hole in his face that Simmons had made. “None of this is permanent. I’ll heal.” His grin widens. “And now you’ve got a broken, blind soldier to slow you down. Leave him behind, maybe you can get a bit of a head start. You can’t run forever. But me… there’s nowhere you can run from me.” He reaches out, about to touch Tucker’s helmet, and Tucker moves backwards without thinking, his heart racing in his chest. He can tell now; the smell of dead bodies from inside the house was Felix. Felix is standing here, a rotting corpse, upright and walking, and if this had happened a few years ago, Tucker thinks he might have not been able to handle this. As it is, he can barely keep his hands steady on his sword. “And you know it.”

“Tucker, get back,” Wash says.

“He knows, doesn’t he?” Felix coos. “He knows you’re going to say yes. I mean, if _Locus_ would do it… what would a _hero_ do?”

“Tucker!”

It’s Caboose, and Tucker throws himself to the ground once again as a spray of liquid hits Felix right in the chest, soaking his shirt.

“What?” Felix looks down, and then his eyes widen comically as he realizes that he’s just been doused in gasoline.

“Hello Felix,” the calm, controlled voice of Megan Wu rings through the air, and Felix’s head snaps up to look at her, mouth hanging open as he sees her, standing in the middle of the yard, a zippo lighter in her hands. “Think fast.”

The lighter flies through the air, smacking right against Felix’s chest. Flames catch on his shirt, and Felix shouts, scrambling to remove his shirt.

Tucker races forward again as Felix stumbles backwards, and slices off first his left arm, then his right. Donut moves forward, holding a bright red gasoline canister, and throws it right over Felix.

Felix’s screams grow louder as the flames begin to engulf him, and he stumbles forwards towards Tucker, only to be driven backwards by another shot of the sniper rifle. The damage might not hurt him, but the force of it still sends him stumbling onto the ground.

He keeps screaming the whole time.

And none of them look away.

* * *

 

Megan puts Felix’s ashes in a box that she’d brought with her. None of them even question why she has it. “I think I can find a black hole to put these in, in case he can heal, like he said.” She seems completely unaffected by the fact that she had just burned Felix to death… undeath? Second death?

Locus just sits there, not speaking at all, just like he’s been the whole time since Felix had gone up in smoke. His eyes have remained wide open and unseeing the whole time.

In the bright light of day, Locus somehow looks worse. He sits exactly where Caboose had set him down and hunches inward, trying to make himself small. He hasn’t acknowledged anything they’ve said, only flinching every single time Megan speaks.

If that’s not confirmation that he killed Mason Wu, Tucker doesn’t know what is.

“Sam,” Tucker says, and Locus jerks, as if he’s just been hit.

“Lavernius—Tucker,” Locus says. “I’m… I’m sorry.” He sounds utterly miserable. “I did not intend for you to get dragged into this.”

“Are you _okay_?” Tucker says. Then he stops and corrects himself. “Don’t fucking apologize for being tortured for three months!”

“It was my choice,” Locus says dully. “And if I had stopped him—”

“I’m not going to blame you for not keeping a flame thrower on the island, or wherever it was that he found you!”

“I could have stopped him years ago. Before any of this began. Everything he did; to me, to you, to Chorus, I could have—”

“Shut up,” Megan orders, and Locus flinches again. She crouches in front of him, grabbing his face and tilting his chin up so that he appears to be looking at her. Tucker nearly stops her, but there’s something fierce in her face that stops him. “You’ve got enough on your conscious without putting his shit on there too.”

Locus says nothing, just looks utterly miserable. Megan examines him, her other hand reaching up, and brushing against one of the scars over his eyes. Locus lets her. “You killed Mason,” she says, softly. She drops his chin, and takes a step back.

“Yes,” Locus says, his eyes finally closing.

She swallows. Tucker makes sure to track where her hands are, worried that she might go for her gun. Or at the very least, burst into tears. But instead, her eyes are bright but dry as she asks, her voice a thin and strangled croak, “ _Why_?”

“Felix said—” Locus stops and corrects himself. “We believed that—”

“Felix lied to you,” she says, closing her eyes for a moment. “It’s okay. I know he lied. What did he say?”

“That Mason had cut a deal with our enemies,” Locus says, his voice soft. “That he had sold us, our information, to the authorities. And when we learned he was in hiding, it seemed that Felix wasn’t being paranoid, so I agreed to go speak to him. We came here, to his safehouse. He attacked. And I—” He stops, looking down.

She laughs, bitter. “Of course.” She walks away, still holding Felix’s ashes under her arm.

Tucker sits down next to him. He wants to ask if Locus knew about Megan getting her husband’s head in a box, but he can guess the answer, even if it only opens up more questions.

Had it just taken them three months to track him down, or had Felix kept the head in a fridge or something until he decided what to do? And what the fuck had Mason Wu done to put Felix so on edge, to make him decide to kill his friend?

There’s no answers for those questions though; any possibility of answers sits in the box that Megan Wu has just thrown into the trunk of her car.

So finally, Tucker decides to ask a different question.

“He told you he’d leave us alone if you went with him?”

“I would let him do whatever he wished.” Locus angles himself away from Tucker, and he somehow seems _small_. “I knew, at the very least, if he was focused on me, he would not harm you or the others.”

Wash and some of the others have drawn near, listening to this.

“So why the betrayal?” Wash asks.

“To hurt you,” Locus says. He moves his head around, as if trying to figure out where everyone is, and then looks where he probably thinks none of them are. “He believed it would… break you. I… I did not correct him.”

Tucker stares at him, incredulous. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

He’s got _no_ fucking idea what he’s supposed to say here. How he’s supposed to explain how these past few months have been _hell_ , how—

“Oh, shut up.”

Thank God for Dexter Grif, apparently.

“You just got tortured for three months, that’s enough fodder for self-pity.” He’s found a fluffy red blanket from somewhere, and he drapes it over Locus’ shoulders. “You’re our _friend_ , jackass. Of course it _hurt_.” He sits down, next to Locus, who flinches away for a moment, before forcing himself to relax.

“I…” Locus’ voice breaks, and Tucker sits down on his other side as Locus shatters, completely and utterly. It’s not dramatic, or loud, but the soft gasping noises that pass for sobs begin, just as tears slowly begin to fall.

“I don’t—I don’t—I—”

Tucker leans against him, wrapping one of his arms around Locus. Grif is doing the same on the others side, pressing him between them, as if they could somehow push the pieces back together.

Caboose throws himself at Locus, landing in his lap and wrapping his arms around his neck. And slowly, the others move in and the sound of Locus’ crying slowly fades away as they all stand around him, all of them bruised and battered, but alive.

They’ve won.

* * *

 

They go back to the moon, after that.

Megan Wu sends them a message with a video file of the box with Felix’s ashes being launched into a black hole, with no note attached. They decide not to contact her again. She’s a cool old lady and all, but with Locus around, there’s no need to open old wounds.

She’d pulled Locus aside to talk, before they’d left. Locus had returned to them, his cheek slightly red, as if from a slap, but he shook his head when Wash had asked him if they needed to avoid law enforcement.

Things can’t exactly go back to normal, not after… everything. A lot of Locus’ injuries will need care, Doc is pretty damn sure of that at least. They’ve been having long discussions about if they can trust Grey enough to not turn him in, because she’s the only one they can think of who could treat him.

All of them kind of avoiding the question, uncomfortably present once again, if he _should_ turn himself in.

Seeing Felix again… it’s brought up bad memories. Memories from the war, of who Locus used to be. Locus doesn’t seem to have anything to say during those conversations. He speaks when spoken to, he does whatever they suggest, and he…

Tucker’s not sure that Locus really believes Felix is gone, or that he’s been really rescued. Something about the way he moves through the base, struggling to learn the layout, to walk around on his own without support, reminds Tucker of Wash when they’d first taken him in. Wash had been the same; certain that they’d been about to turn on him, not really believing that any of it was real.

Locus wakes up screaming every night, and for the first week, Tucker makes himself stay in bed with Wash. He’s not sure _he’s_ ready for this; asking Locus what his nightmares were about, and maybe even confessing some of his own nightmares in turn.

Felix is there, every time he closes his eyes. The smell of rotting meat, the jagged lines of his face, and the way he just… hadn’t gone _down_ stick with him. He dreams of the others, dead, and being forced to watch, he dreams of Felix sliding the knife home, of Felix crawling his way out of a black hole somehow, back into their lives.

The second week, Tucker goes out to the kitchen, but although he can hear Locus scream, no one comes out of his room.

They’d pulled all of his things out of the cave, trying to recreate his room as best they could. But he gave Caboose the photographs, because he couldn’t see them anymore. He’s refused to touch the sniper rifle that Grif keeps trying to return, and Tucker hasn’t so much as seen the sword since he pressed it into Locus’ hands on the pelican ride back.

Tucker sits in the kitchen, boiling water for Locus’ tea and drinking coffee, just waiting for something to happen. Because something is going to give—he can feel it in his bones. Locus has barely come out of his room over the past few weeks, only coming out when Grif or Caboose drags him into some activity or another.

Locus won’t be able to _stand_ keeping still for this long, Tucker is sure about that. He’ll need to do something.

And whatever it is, Tucker’s here.

He ignores the flickers of guilt, at how easy it had been to believe that Locus had betrayed them again. Locus has brushed past all apologies, saying he needed them to believe it, and Wash has pointed out that Locus has betrayed people in the past.

Siris, Chorus, Felix.

And now them.

But this one was fake, and maybe for a good reason, and from the set of his mouth whenever it comes up, Tucker knows that Locus still thinks it was worth it.

It’s halfway through the eleventh night of Tucker falling asleep at the kitchen table when Locus’ screams start again, only to cut off abruptly.

The door slams open, and Locus stumbles out of the room, on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. His forehead is streaked with sweat, and he’s shaking as he just remains there, muttering something to himself too softly for Tucker to hear.

Tucker says nothing, just watches as slowly, Locus forces himself to his feet, leaning against the wall for support.

He starts walking forward, almost confidently, heading towards the exit, even though Tucker _knows_ he’s faking. But one of Doc’s herbal magazines has ended up scattered on the ground, and Locus slips, only barely managing to catch himself by grabbing ahold of a chair.

“Where are you going?” Tucker asks, setting down his cup of coffee. It’s gotten cold anyways, so Tucker doesn’t see any point in drinking it, but having something in his hands was settling.

Locus is silent for a moment, not even turning to face him.

His hair has begun to grow back, short, uneven tufts of black hair sticking up on all ends. They probably should tidy it up, but no one’s had the heart to suggest it to Locus, who keeps touching it almost reverently, as if unable to believe that it’s starting to grow back.

“I… I wanted…” Locus stops.

“Sam,” Tucker says. “It’s okay. What do you need?”

Locus’ eyes close. “I wanted to go to the beach,” he admits.

“Right,” Tucker says. “C’mon, take my arm. Let’s get you down there.”

Tucker’s never helped someone blind walk before, but they’re all kind of slowly figuring it out. Locus hates it, but they haven’t managed to figure out how the sticks really work, and they’re still in the midst of a debate about service dogs.

Tucker guides Locus down the path, mostly keeping quiet. Locus’ arm is locked through his, and Locus is so tense that Tucker thinks he might crack if Tucker says anything. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that Felix must have used this, somehow, to hurt Locus, but it’s got to be better than letting Locus walk off a cliff, or crawl his way to the beach, which are basically their only other options right now.

“Watch out,” Tucker says. “We’re at the beach now.” There’s a slight drop off as the ground changes from grass to sand, and Locus carefully steps down.

They’re both wearing their pajamas, and they must look ridiculous, but Locus just lets go of Tucker’s arm, and keeps walking forward.

It’s only when he’s ankle deep in the water that Locus stops moving, staring out, unseeing, across the ocean.

Slowly, surely, Locus crumples down, until he’s sitting in the surf, knees drawn up to his chest. For a moment, Tucker just stares, unsure of what to do.

He thinks about the last time they’d been here, about the way that Locus had looked so… fragile, then.

But now, he just looks broken. He looks old, tired, weathered. There are scars on his back, exposed by the tank top he wore to bed. Tucker can’t even _begin_ to try and guess where half of those scars even _come from_.

He thinks about Felix’s offer.

Tucker sits down next to Locus, even though the sand is wet and gross and the water is cold.

“He came when I was asleep,” Locus finally says. “I thought he was a nightmare. I didn’t react fast enough, and he disabled me. He was going to leave me, kill all of you, and then come back for me.” He bows his head. “I couldn’t see a way out.”

Tucker swallows, and places a hand on his shoulder. For once, Locus doesn’t flinch away from the human contact, instead relaxing into it slowly, until he’s leaning against Tucker.

“I know,” Tucker says quietly. “I would have done the same thing.”

The two of them sit there until the stars fade away and the sun rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felix died! RIP Zombie Felix; you live on within the depths of the black hole. 
> 
> Again, thank you all so, so much for making this journey with me. You can, as always, yell at me on Tumblr! Please let me know what you think; this has been a fascinating experiment from beginning to end, and I hope you guys have had as much fun as I have!

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [Tumblr](http://secretlystephaniebrown.tumblr.com/)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Sacrifice: Redux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14018250) by [Hinn_Raven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven)
  * [The Sacrifice: Variations on a Theme](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14053176) by [Hinn_Raven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven)




End file.
